THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


1 


RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 


RUTHERFORD    AND    SON 


A  PLAY  IN  THREE  ACTS 


BY 
GITHA   SOWERBY 


GEORGE   H.    DORAN    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


r  h 


Copyright,  1912,  by 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


All  rights  reserved 


CHARACTERS 

John  Rutherford. 

John,        1 

(-  his  Sons. 
Richard,  J 

Janet,  his  Daughter. 

Ann,  his  Sister. 

Mary,  young  John's  Wife. 

Martin. 

Mrs.  Henderson. 


Scene. —  Living  room  in  John  Rutherford's  house. 

Two  days  elapse  between  Acts  I.  and  II. 
One  night  between  Acts  II.  and  III. 


RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

ACT  I 

Jolm  Rutherford's  house  stands  on  the  edge  of 
the  moor,  far  enough  from  the  village  to 
serve  its  dignity  and  near  enough  to  admit 
of  the  master  going  to  and  from  the  Works 
in  a  few  minutes  —  a  process  known  to  the 
household  as  "  going  across.''  The  living 
room,  in  which  the  family  life  has  centred  for 
generations,  is  a  big  square  room  furnished  in 
solid  mahogany  and  papered  in  red,  as  if  to 
mitigate  the  bleakness  of  a  climate  that  in- 
cludes five  months  of  winter  in  every  year. 
There  is  a  big  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room 
covered  with  a  brown  cloth  at  which  the  fam- 
ily take  their  meals.  An  air  of  orderliness 
pervades  the  room,  which  perhaps  accounts 
for  its  being  extremely  uncomfortable.  From 
above  the  heavy  polished  sideboard  the  late 
John  Rutherford  looks  down  from  his  frame 
and  sees  the  settle  and  armchair  on  either  side 
of  the  fire,  the  marble  clock  on  the  mantel- 
piece,  the  desk  with  its  brass  inkstand  and 

7 


8  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

neatly  arranged  bundles  of  papers  precisely 
as  he  saw  them  in  life. 

On  this  particular  evening  in  December  Ann 
Rutherford  is  sitting  by  the  fire  alternately 
knitting  and  dozing.  She  is  a  faded,  queru- 
lous woman  of  about  sixty,  and  wears  a  black- 
dress  with  a  big  fiat  brooch  and  a  cap  with 
lilac  ribbons.  Mary  Rutherford,  a  gentle 
delicate-looking  woman  of  twenty-six,  is  seated 
on  the  settle  opposite  to  her  making  a  baby^s 
cap;  she  is  bending  forward  to  catch  the  light 
of  the  fire  on  her  work,  for  the  lamp  has  not 
yet  been  brought  in. 

Presently  Janet  comes  in  carrying  a  silver  basket 
and  a  pair  of  carpet  slippers.  She  is  a  heavy 
dark  woman,  some  ten  years  older  than  Mary, 
with  an  expressionless  tired  face  and  monoto- 
nous voice.  All  her  movements  are  slipshod 
and  aimless,  and  she  seldom  raises  her  cues. 
She  is  dressed  in  a  dark  dress  of  some  warm 
material  with  white  collar  and  cuffs. 

Janet  [glancing  at  the  clock'\.  He's  not  back 
yet. 

Ann.     No.     ...     If  you  mean  your  father. 

Janet  [^folding  up  the  brown  cloth  preparatory 
to  laying  the  tablel^.     Who  else  should  I  mean.? 

Ann.  You  might  mean  any  one.  .  .  .  You 
always  talk  about  he  and  him,  as  if  there  was  no 
one  else  in  the  hoose. 


ACT  I  d 

Janet.     There  isn't. 

Ann.  Answer  me  back,  that's  the  way.  [^Janet 
makes  no  reply.  She  puts  the  silver  basket  on  the 
table  and  comes  to  the  -fire  with  the  slippers.'] 
There  —  put  his  shppers  down  to  warm.  The 
Committee  room's  cold  as  ice,  and  he'll  come  in  like 
the  dead. 

Mary  [looking  up  from  her  work  for  a  mo- 
ment]. I  believe  it's  going  to  freeze  to-night  — 
the  chimneys  are  flaring  so.  [Janet  drops  the 
shoes  one  by  one  on  to  the  hearthrug  without  stoop- 
ing.] 

Ann.  They'll  never  warm  there!  I  never  seed 
sic  a  feckless  lass.  [Stoops  laboriously  and  sets 
them  up  against  the  fender.]  Is  the  dinner  all 
right  ? 

Janet.  Susan's  let  the  pie  get  burnt,  but  I've 
scraped  the  top  off  —  he  won't  notice.  The  girdle 
cake's  as  tough  as  leather.  She'll  have  to  do  a 
fresh  one  ■ —  if  there's  time. 

Ann.     You  might  ha'  seen  to  things  a  bit. 

Janet.  I  have.  There  wouldn't  ha'  been  a  pie 
at  all  if  I  hadn't.     The  oven  damper's  gone  wrong. 

Ann.  Answer  me  —  answer  yer  aunt !  You 
and  your  dampers  —  and  there  you  are  a-laying 
the  table  and  ye  know  weel  enough  yer  father's  for- 
bid you  to  do  things  like  a  servant. 

Janet.  What  else  is  there  to  do?  I  can't  sit 
and  sew  all  day. 

Ann.     I'm   sure  I'm  never  done   finding   fault 


10  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

from  morning  to  night  with  one  thing  and  another. 

Janet.     Don't  then. 

Ann.  And  a  nice  thing  if  I  didn't!  Nothing 
ever  done  in  the  house  unless  I  see  to  it  —  that's 
what  it  comes  to. 

Janet  [spreading  the  clot]i\.  You'll  drop  your 
stitches. 

Ann.  You  never  stir  yourself,  nor  Mary 
neither,  for  that  matter. 

Mary.  I  can't  do  much  else  with  Tony  to  look 
after,  Miss  Rutherford. 

Janet.  There's  no  need  for  her  to  do  anything. 
It's  not  her  business. 

Ann.  Nor  anybody's  business,  it  seems  to  me. 
\^Suh siding.^  I  don't  know  what's  come  to  Susan 
nowadays,  she's  that  daft  —  a  head  like  a  sieve, 
and  that  clumsy-handed. 

Janet.     Susan's  got  a  man. 

Ann.     Well,  I  never! 

Janet.  That's  what  she  says.  It's  one  of  the 
men  at  the  Works.  He  hangs  about  on  his  way 
home  from  the  night  shift  —  when  she  ought  to  be 
doing  the  rooms.  .  .  .  Susan's  happy 
that's  why  she  forgot  to  take  the  milk  out  of  the 
can.     There's  no  cream  for  the  pudding. 

Ann.     And  he's  so  particular  about  his  cream. 

Janet.  He'll  have  to  do  without  for  once.  And 
what  with  the  pie  burnt  —  and  the  girdle  cake  like 
leather,  if  he  comes  in  before  the  other's  ready  —  I 


ACT  I  11 

should  think  we'll  have  a  fair  evening.      [^SJie  leaves 
the  room.^ 

Ann.     Eh,  dearie  —  dearie.      Sic  doings  I 

Mary  [absorbed  in  her  cap'\.  Never  mind,  Miss 
Rutherford. 

Ann.     Never  mind !     It's  weel  for  you  to  talk. 

Mary.  Janet'll  see  that  it's  all  right.  She  al- 
ways does,  though  she  talks  like  that. 

Ann.  Her  and  her  sulky  ways.  There's  no  do- 
ing anything  with  her  of  late.  She  used  to  be  bad 
enough  as  a  lass,  that  passionate  and  hard  to  drive. 
She's  ten  times  worse  now  she's  turned  quiet. 

Mary.  Perhaps  she's  tired  with  the  long  walks 
she  takes.  She's  been  out  nearly  two  hours  this 
afternoon  in  the  rain. 

Ann  ^turning  to  her  knittingl.  What  should 
she  have  to  put  her  out  —  except  her  own  tempers. 

Mary  [trying  to  divert  her  attention'].  Miss 
Rutherford,  look  at  Tony's  cap;  I've  nearly  fin- 
ished it. 

Ann  [still  cross].  It's  weel  enough.  Though 
what  he  wants  wi'  a  lot  o'  bows  standing  up  all  over 
his  head  passes  me. 

Mary.     They're  butterfly  bows. 

Ann.     Butterfly   bows!     And   what'll   butterfly 

bows  do  for  'n?     They'll  no'  keep  his  head  warm. 

Mary.     But  he  looks  such  a  darling  in  them. 

I'll  put  it  on  to-morrow  when  I  take  him  out,  and 

you'll  see. 


12  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

Ann.     London  ways  —  that's  what  It  Is. 

Mary.  Do  north  country  babies  never  have 
bows  on  tlieir  caps? 

Ann.  Not  in  these  parts.  And  not  the  Ruther- 
ford's anyway.  Plain  and  lasting  —  that's  the 
rule  in  this  family,  and  we  bide  by  it,  babies  and 
all.  But  you  can't  be  expected  to  know,  and  you 
like  a  stranger  in  the  hoose.  \^Janet  comes  in  car- 
rying a  loaf  on  a  trencher^  loliich  she  'puts  on  the 
table.'] 

Mary.     I've  been  here  nearly  three  months. 

Ann.  And  this  very  night  you  sit  wasting  your 
time  making  a  bit  trash  fit  for  a  monkey  at  a  fair. 
A  body  would  think  you  would  ha'  learned  better 
by  now. 

Janet  [quietlyl.  What's  the  matter  with  Mary 
now.'' 

Ann.  We  can  talk,  I  suppose,  without  asking 
your  leave? 

Janet.  It  was  you  that  was  talking.  Let  her 
be. 

Ann.  And  there  you've  been  and  put  the  loaf 
on  as  if  It  was  the  kitchen  —  and  you  know  weel 
enough  that  gentlefolk  have  it  set  roond  in  bits. 

Janet.  Gentle  folk  can  do  their  own  ways. 
\_She  goes  out  to  fetch  the  knives.] 

Ann  \_she  gets  up  laboriously  and  goes  to  the 
table].  I'll  have  to  do  it  myself  as  usual.  '[She 
cuts  the  bread  and  sets  it  round  beside  the  plates.^ 

Mary  \_who  has  gone  to  the  mindow  and  is  look- 


ACT  I  13 

ing  out  at  the  winter  tunlight^.     If  I'm  a  stranger, 
it's  you  that  makes  me  so. 

Ann.     Ye've  no  cause  to  speak  so,  lass. 
I'm  not  blamin'  you.     It's  no'  your  fault  that  you 
weren't  born  and  bred  in  the  north  country. 

Mary.  No.  I  can't  change  that.  ...  I 
wonder  what  it's  like  here  when  the  sun  shines ! 

An/n  [who  is  busy  with  the  hread'\.     Sun? 

Mary.  It  doesn't  look  as  if  the  summer  ever 
came  here. 

ATvn.  If  ye're  looking  for  the  summer  in  the 
middle  o'  December  ye'U  no'  get  it.  Ye'll  soon  get 
used  to  it.  Ye've  happened  on  a  bad  autumn  for 
your  first,  that's  all. 

Mary.     My  first. 

Ann.  Ye're  a  bit  saft  wi'  livin'  in  the  sooth,  nae 
doubt.  They  tell  me  there's  a  deal  of  sunshine 
and  wickedness  in  them  parts. 

Mary.     The  people  are  happier,  I  think. 

Ann.  Mebbee.  Bein'  happy'll  make  no  por- 
ridge.     [She  goes  hack  to  her  chair. 1 

Mary.  I  lived  in  Devonshire  when  I  was  a  child, 
and  everywhere  there  were  lanes.  But  here  —  it's 
all  so  old  and  stern  —  this  great  stretch  of  moor, 
and  the  fells  —  and  the  trees  —  all  bent  one  way, 
crooked  and  huddled. 

Ann  [absorbed  in  her  Jcnittmgl.  It's  the  sea- 
wind  that  does  it. 

Mary.     The  one  that's  blowing  now? 

Ann.     Aye. 


14  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

Mary  [with  a  shiver].  Shall  I  draw  the  cur- 
tains ? 

Ann.  Aye.  [Mary  draws  the  curtains.  Aft- 
er a  silence  she  speaJcs  again  gently.'] 

Mary.  I  wonder  if  you'll  ever  get  used  to  me 
enough  to  —  like  me  ? 

Ann  [tenth  the  north  country  dislike  of  anything 
demonstrative].  Like  you  1  Sic  a  question  —  and 
you  a  kind  of  a  relation. 

Mary.     Myself,  I  mean. 

Ann.  You're  weel  enough.  You're  a  bit  slip  of 
a  thing,  but  you're  John's  wife,  and  the  mother  of 
his  bairn,  and  there's  an  end. 

Mary.  Yes,  that's  all  I  am!  [She  takes  up 
her  "work  again.] 

Ann.     Now  you're  talking. 

Mary  [sewing].  Don't  think  I  don't  under- 
stand. John  and  I  have  been  married  five  years. 
All  that  time  Mr.  Rutherford  never  once  asked 
to  see  me;  if  I  had  died,  he  would  have  been 
glad. 

Ann.  I  don't  say  that.  He's  a  proud  man,  and 
he  looked  higher  for  his  son  after  the  eddication 
he'd  given  him.  You  mustn't  be  thinking  such 
things. 

Mary  [without  bitterfiess].  Oh,  I  know  all 
about  it.  If  I  hadn't  been  Tony's  mother,  he 
would  never  have  had  me  inside  his  house.  And 
if  I  hadn't  been  Tony's  mother,  I  wouldn't  have 
come.     Not  for  anything  in  the  world.     .     .     . 


ACT  I  15 

It's  wonderful  how  he's  picked  up  since  he  got  out 
of  those  stuffy  lodgings. 

Ann  [winding  up  her  wool}.  Well,  Mr.  Ruther- 
ford's in  the  right  after  all. 

Mary.     Oh,  yes.     He's  in  the  right. 

Ann.  It's  a  bitter  thing  for  him  that's  worked 
all  his  life  to  make  a  place  i'  the  world  to  have  his 
son  go  off  and  marry  secret-like.  Folk  like  him 
look  for  a  return  from  their  bairns.  It's  weel 
known  that  no  good  comes  of  a  marriage  such  as 
yours,  and  it's  no  wonder  that  it  takes  him  a  bit 
of  time  to  make  up  his  mind  to  bide  it.  {Getting 
up  to  go.}  But  what's  done's  done.  [Young 
John  Rutherford  comes  in  while  she  is  speaking. 
He  is  delicate-looking  and  boyish  in  speech  and 
manner  —  attractive,  m  spite  of  the  fact  that  he 
is  the  type  that  has  been  made  a  gentleman  of  and 
stopped  half-way  in  the  process.} 

John  [mimicking  her  tone}.  So  it  is,  Aunt 
Ann.     Dinner's  late,  isn't  it? 

Ann.  He's  not  back  yet.  He's  past  his  time. 
I'm  sure  I  hope  nothing's  happened. 

John.     What  should  have  happened? 

Ann.  Who's  to  tell  that  he  hasn't  had  an  acci- 
dent.    Things  do  happen. 

John.  They  do  indeed.  He  may  have  jumped 
into  a  furnace 

Ann.  Ah,  you  may  joke.  But  you  never  know. 
You  never  know.  [She  wanders  out,  with  the 
vague  intention  of  seeing  to  the  dinner.} 


16  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

John.  Cheery  old  soul,  Aunt  Ann.  No  one's 
ever  five  minutes  late  but  she  kills  and  buries  them. 
[Pause.']      What's  she  been  saying  to  you? 

Mary  [sewing'\.     She's  been  talking  about  —  us. 
John.     I  should  have  thought  that  subject  was 
about  threadbare  by  now.      [Pause.]     What's  she 
say.? 

Mary.  The  usual  things.  How  angry  your 
father  still  is,  and  how  a  marriage  like  ours  never 

comes  to  good 

John.  Oh,  rot.  Anyway,  we  needn't  talk  about 
it.  [She  looks  quickly  up  at  him  and  her  face 
changes.] 

Mary.      Some  one's  always  talking  about  it. 
John.     Wlio  is.? 

Mary.  Miss  Rutherford  —  any  of  them.  Your 
father  would,  if  he  ever  spoke  to  me  at  all.  He 
looks  it  instead. 

John.     Oh,  nonsense ;  you  imagine  things.     The 
Guv'nor's  like  that  with  us  all  —  it's  always  been 
so;  besides,  he  doesn't  like  women  —  never  notices 
them.      [Trying  to  make  it  all  right.]      Look  here, 
I  know  it's  rather  beastly  for  you  just  now,  but 
it'll  be   all   right   in   time.     Things   are   going   to 
change,  so  don't  you  worry,  little  woman. 
Mary.     What  are  we  going  to  do? 
John.     Do?     What  should  we  do? 
Mary.     Anything.     To  get  some  money  of  our 
own.     To  make  some  sort  of  life   for  ourselves, 
away  from  here. 


ACT  I  17 

John.  You  wait  till  I  get  this  invention  of  mine 
set  going.  As  for  getting  away,  please  remember 
it  was  you  who  insisted  on  coming.  I  never  wanted 
you  to. 

Mary.  I  had  to  come.  Tony  was  always  ailing 
in  London. 

John.  You  never  left  me  alone  till  I'd  crawled 
to  the  Guv'nor  and  asked  to  come  back. 

Mary.  What  else  was  there  left  to  do.?  You 
couldn't  find  work 

John.  If  you'd  had  patience  and  waited,  things 
would  have  been  all  right. 

Mary.  I've  waited  five  years.  I  couldn't  go  on 
earning  enough  when  Tony  came. 

John  \^sulkily^.  Well  you  couldn't  expect  me 
to  ask  the  Guv'nor  to  keep  us  all  three.  And  if  I 
had  stayed  in  London  with  j^ou  instead  of  coming 
back  when  he  gave  me  the  chance,  what  good  would 
it  have  done,?  I'd  have  missed  the  biggest  thing 
of  my  life  —  I  know  that.  .  .  .  Anyway,  I 
do  hate  this  going  back  over  it  all.  Beastly,  sor- 
did  

Mary  [looking  before  her'\.  I  couldn't  go  on. 
I'd  done  it  so  long  —  long  before  you  knew  me. 
Day  after  day  in  an  office.  The  crowded  train 
morning  and  night  —  bad  light  —  bad  food  —  and 
because  I  did  that  my  boy  is  small  and  delicate. 
It's  been  nothing  else  all  along  —  the  bare  struggle 
for  life.  I  sometimes  think  that  it's  the  only 
reality  in  the  world. 


18  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

John  [ill-humoured].  Wliether  it's  the  only 
reality  or  not,  I  call  it  a  pretty  deadly  way  of  look- 
ing at  things. 

Mary.  It  is  —  deadly.  I  didn't  know  how 
deadly  till  I  began  to  care  for  you  and  thought  it 
was  going  to  be  different. 

John.     The  old  story. 

Mary.  No,  no,  we  won't  look  back.  But  oh, 
John,  I  do  so  dreadfully  want  things  for  Tony. 
[John  begins  to  move  about  the  room.]  I  didn't 
mind  when  there  was  only  ourselves.  But  when  he 
was  coming  I  began  to  think,  to  look  at  the  other 
children  —  children  of  people  in  our  position  in 
London  —  taught  to  work  before  they'd  had  time 
to  learn  what  work  means  —  with  the  manhood 
ground  out  of  them  before  ever  it  came.  And  I 
thought  how  that  was  what  we  had  to  give  our 
child,  you  and  I.  .  .  .  Wlien  your  father  for- 
gave you  for  marrying  me,  and  said  you  might 
come  here,  it  seemed  like  a  chance.  And  there's 
nothing,  nothing  —  except  this  place  you  call  home. 

John.     Hang  it  all 

Mary.  Oh,  I  know  it's  big  —  there's  food  and 
warmth,  but  it's  like  a  prison!  There's  not  a 
scrape  of  love  in  the  whole  house.  Your  father ! 
—  no  one's  any  right  to  be  what  he  is  —  never 
questioned,  never  answered  back  —  like  God !  and 
the  rest  of  you  just  living  round  him  —  neither 
children,  nor  men  and  women  —  hating  each  other. 

John  [turning  to  look  at  her  with  a  sort  of  won- 


ACT  I  19 

der^.  Don't  exaggerate.  Whatever  has  set  you 
off  talking  like  this? 

Mary.     Because  I'm  always  thinking  about  it. 

John.  You've  never  had  a  home  of  your  own, 
and  you  don't  make  excuses  for  family  life  — 
everybody  knows  it's  like  that  more  or  less. 

Mary.  And  you've  lived  with  it  always  —  you 
can't  see  it  as  I  do. 

John.     I  do  see  it.     And  it's  jolly  unpleasant 

—  I'm  not  arguing  about  that 

Mary.  Don't  you  see  that  life  in  this  house  is 
intolerable  ? 

John.  Well,  frankly,  no,  I  don't.  That  is,  I 
don't  see  why  you  should  find  it  so.  It's  all  very 
well  to  abuse  my  people,  and  I  sympathise  with  you 
in  a  way  —  no  one  dislikes  them  more  than  I  do. 
I  know  Janet's  got  a  filthy  temper,  and  Aunt  Ann 

—  well,  she  hasn't  moved  on  with  the  rest  of  us, 
poor  old  soul,  that's  the  long  and  the  short  of  it. 
As  for  the  Guv'nor  —  it's  no  use  beginning  to  apol- 
ogise for  him. 

Mary.     Apologise ! 

John,  Well,  that's  about  what  you  seem  to  ex- 
pect. I've  told  you  I  quite  see  that  it  isn't  over 
pleasant  for  you,  and  you  might  leave  it  at  that, 
I  think.  You  do  drive  at  one  so  .  .  .  and 
you  seem  to  forget  how  ill  I've  been. 

Mary.  I  don't  forget.  But  don't  you  see  we 
may  go  on  hke  this  for  twenty  years  doing  noth- 
ing? 


20  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

Jolvn.  Don't  you  suppose  I  wouldn't  have  done 
something  —  do  you  suppose  I  didn't  mean  to  do 
something,  if  I  hadn't  been  knocked  over  just  at 
the  critical  moment?  [Injured.]  Do  you  sup- 
pose I  wouldn't  rather  have  been  working  than  ly- 
ing on  my  back  all  these  weeks? 

Mary  \_quietly'\.  How  about  all  the  other 
weeks  ? 

John.  Good  heavens,  what  more  could  I  do  than 
I  have  done?  Here  have  I  hit  on  a  thing  worth 
thousands  —  a  thing  that  any  glass-maker  would 
give  his  ears  to  have  the  working  of.  And  you 
talk  to  me  about  making  money  —  and  a  life  of  our 
own.  Good  Lord !  we're  going  to  be  rich  —  rich, 
once  it's  set  going. 

Mary  [unim/pressed].  Have  you  told  Mr. 
Rutherford  about  it  ? 

John.  Yes.  At  least,  I've  told  him  what  it  is. 
.  .  .  I  haven't  told  him  how  it's  done  —  nat- 
urally. ...  He  won't  Hstcn  to  me  —  it's  like 
talking  to  a  lump  of  granite.  He'll  find  he'll  have 
to  listen  before  long.  .  .  .  I've  set  Martin  on 
to  him. 

Mary.     Why  Martin? 

John.  Because  he  helped  me  to  work  it  out. 
And  because  he  happens  to  be  the  one  person  in 
the  world  the  Guv'nor  ever  listens  to. 

Mary  [looliing  up].  He  trusts  Martin,  doesn't 
he  ?     Absolutely. 

John.     Oh,    Lord!    yes.     Martin    can    do    no 


ACT  I  21 

wrong.     The   Guv'nor'll   listen   to   him   all    right. 
Mary  {^resuming  her  work'\.     When  is  he  going 
to  tell  him.? 

John.     Oh,  directly  he  gets  a  chance.     He  may 
have  done  it  already. 

Mary  {^putting  down  her  work'].  To-day? 
Then  Martin  really  believes  there's  sometliing  in  it  ? 
John  [indignantly].  Something  in  it!  My 
dear  Mary,  I  know  you  don't  mean  to  be,  but  you 
are  most  fearfully  irritating.  Here  have  I  told 
you  over  and  over  again  that  I'm  going  to  make 
my  fortune,  and  because  some  one  else  agrees  with 
me  you're  kind  enough  to  believe  what  I  say.  One 
would  think  j^ou  had  no  faith  in  me. 

Mary  [giving  it  up  as  hopeless].  I'm  sorry. 
We  won't  talk  of  it  any  more.  I've  said  it  all  so 
often  —  said  it  till  you're  sick  of  hearing  it,  and 
it's  no  good. 

John.  Molly,  don't  be  cross.  ...  I  don't 
mean  to  be  a  binite,  but  it  is  a  bit  disappointing, 
isn't  it?  \^'^len  I  really  have  found  the  right  thing 
at  last,  to  find  you  so  lukewarm  about  it.  Because 
it  really  is  this  time.  It'll  change  everything ;  and 
you  shall  do  what  you  like  and  enjoy  yourself  as 
much  as  you  want  to  —  and  forget  all  about  those 
filthy  years  in  Walton  Street.  [He  comes  to  her 
and  puts  his  arm  round  her.]  There,  don't  be  a 
fool.  What  are  you  making? 
Mary.  A  cap  for  Tony. 
John.     Dear  little  beggar,  isn't  he  ? 


23  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

Mary.  Yes.  .  .  .  Don't  say  things  to 
please  me,  John. 

John.  I'm  not.  I  do  think  he's  a  dear  little 
beggar.  [Pleased  with  himself .1^  We'll  be  as 
happy  as  kings  by  and  by. 

Mary.     As  happy  as  we  were  at  first? 

John.     Happier  —  we'll  have  money. 

Mary.  We  couldn't  be  happier.  [She  sits  with 
Jier  hands  in  her  lap,  her  mouth  wistful.^  What 
a  pair  of  babies  we  were,  weren't  we? 

John.     Oh,  I  don't  know. 

Mary.  Wliat  —  blunderers.  I  thought  it  was 
so  different  —  and  I  dare  say  you  did,  too,  though 
you  never  said  so.  I  suppose  it's  really  true  what 
they  think  here  —  that  we'd  no  business  to  marry 
and  have  a  child  when  we'd  nothing  to  give  him 
when  he  came. 

John.     Wliat  a  little  worrit  you  are. 

Mary.  I  do  worry,  John  —  you  don't  know  how 
much. 

John.     But  what  about? 

Mary.     Tony. 

John.  You  funny  little  thing.  Surely  there's 
time  enough  to  think  about  Tony;  he's  just  four 
months  old. 

Mary.  Yes,  but  to  me  —  I  suppose  every 
woman  thinks  about  her  baby  like  that  —  till  he's  a 
boy  and  a  man  and  a  child  all  in  one  —  only  he 
never  grows  old.  [In  a  practical  tone.'\  How 
long  will  it  take  ? 


ACT  I  23 

J  dim.     How  long  will  what  take? 
Mary.     Your  invention.      {^Looks  up  quickly. '[ 
I  mean  —  don't  be  cross  —  will  it  be  months  —  or 
years,  before  it  pays? 

John  ^moving  a7i>ay'\.  I  really  can't  say  —  it 
depends.  If  the  Guv'nor  has  the  sense  to  see 
things  my  way  —  it  depends.  \_He  takes  a  ciga- 
rette.'\ 

Mary.  I  see.  You  will  work  at  it,  won't  you? 
Make  it  go? 

John  Istriking  a  lightj.  There's  no  work  to  be 
done.  All  I've  got  to  do  is  to  sit  down  and  let 
some  one  pay  for  it. 

Mary.     Sit  down?     It  means   so  much  to  us, 

doesn't  it?     Everything 

John  {who  has  burnt  his  finger'\.  It  means  my 
getting  the  whip-hand  of  the  Guv'nor  for  once  in 
my  life,  llrritahly.]  And  it  means  my  getting 
away  from  your  incessant  nagging  at  me  about  the 
kid  —  and  money. 
Mary.     John ! 

Jolm  Isharply].  After  all,  it  isn't  very  pleas- 
ant for  me  having  you  dependent  on  the  Guv'nor 
and  being  reminded  of  it  every  other  day.  I  don't 
choose  this  kind  of  hfe,  I  can  tell  you.  If  you're 
sick  of  it,  God  knows  I  am.  [While  he  is  speaking 
Ann  drifts  into  the  room  again.'] 

Ann.  There  you  are  —  smoking  again ;  and  you 
know  what  the  doctor  said.  Mary,  tell  him  he's 
not  to. 


24s  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

Mary.     John  must  do  as  he  Hkes. 

John.  I  must  have  something ;  my  nerves  are  all 
on  edge. 

Ann.  Weel,  ye  can't  expect  to  be  right  all  of 
a  sudden.  When  I  think  o'  the  Sunday  night  ye 
was  so  bad,  I  never  thought  to  see  ye  standin'  there 
now. 

John  \_mjuredj.  I  shouldn't  worry  about  that. 
I  don't  suppose  any  one  would  have  been  much  the 
worse  if  I  had  pegged  out. 

Ann.  Whatever  makes  you  say  a  thing  like 
that? 

John.  Mary.  Yes,  you  do,  Mary.  To  hear 
you  talk  one  would  think  I  was  no  good.  How  do 
you  suppose  I've  made  an  invention  if  I  were  the 
rotter  you  think  me? 

Mary.     I  didn't  say  that  —  I  didn't  say  that. 

Ann.  An  invention's  weel  enough  if  you're  not 
mistaken. 

John.     Mistaken ! 

Ann.  All,  but  older  people  nor  you  make  mis- 
takes. There  was  old  Green  —  I  mind  him  fiddling 
on  wi'  a  lot  of  old  cogs  and  screws  half  his  time, 
trying  to  find  oot  the  way  to  prevent  a  railway 
train  going  off  the  line.  And  when  he  did  find  it 
and  took  it  to  show  it  to  some  one  as  knawed  aboot 
such  things,  it  was  so  sartin  sure  not  to  go  off  the 
line  that  the  wheels  wouldn't  turn  roond  at  all.  A 
poor,  half-baked  body  he  was,  and  his  wife  with- 
out a  decent  black  to  show  licrself  in  o'  Sundays. 


ACT  I  25 

John.  I'll  undertake  that  my  wheels  will  go 
round. 

Ann.  If  it's  such  a  wonderful  thing,  why  hasn't 
some  one  thought  of  it  afore?     Answer  me  that. 

John.  You  might  say  that  of  any  new  idea  that 
ever  came  into  the  world. 

Ann.  Of  course,  if  you  set  up  to  know  more 
about  glass-making  than  3'our  father  that's  been  at 
it  ever  since  he  was  a  bairn. 

John.  It  isn't  a  case  of  knowing.  I've  a  much 
better  chance  because  I  don't  know.  It's  the  duf- 
fers who  get  hold  of  the  best  things  —  stumble  over 
them  in  the  dark,  as  I  did.  It  makes  my  blood 
run  cold  to  think  how  easily  I  could  have  missed  it, 
of  all  the  people  who  must  have  looked  straight 
at  it  time  after  time,  and  never  seen  it.  \Con- 
temptuously'\.  Hullo,  Dick!  {^Richard  Ruther- 
ford lias  come  m  from  the  Judl.  He  wears  the 
regulation  clergyjnan's  clothes  and  looks  older  than 
John,  though  he  is  in  reality  the  younger  by  a 
couple  of  years.  He  is  habitually  overworked, 
and  his  face  has  the  rather  pathetic  look  of  an 
overweighted  youth  that  finds  life  too  much  for  its 
strength.  His  manner  is  extremely  simple  and  sin- 
cere, which  enables  him  to  use  priggish  phrases 
without  offence.  He  comes  to  the  table  while  John 
is  speaking,  looks  from  him  to  Ann,  then  at  the 
butter,  sugar,  and  bread  in  turn.'] 

Dick  [very  tired].     Dinner? 

John  \mimicking  him].     Not  imminent. 


26  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

Dick.     Will  it  be  long? 

Ann  [crosslt/].  Ye'll  just  have  to  bide  quiet  till 
it  comes. 

Dick   [gently'].     Ah!     ...     In  that  case  I 

think  I'll  just \_He  takes  a  piece  of  bread 

and  moves  towards  the  door.] 

Ann,     You  look  fair  done. 

Dick.  I've  had  a  tiring  day.  [To  Mary.] 
Where  is  Janet.'' 

Mary.  In  the  kitchen.  [She  looks  at  him  in- 
tently.]    Why  did  you  ask?     Do  you  want  her? 

Dick  [uncertainly].  No,  no.  I  thought  she 
might  have  gone  out.  It's  best  for  her  not  to  go 
out  after  dark. 

Ann.     You  can't  sit  in  your  room  i'  this  cold. 

Dick.     I'll  put  on  a  coat.     It's  quiet  there. 

John.  You'll  have  time  to  write  your  sermon  be- 
fore he  comes  in,  I  dare  say. 

Dick  [simply].  Oh,  I've  done  that,  such  as  it 
is.  [He  leaves  the  roomy  eating  his  bread  as  he 
goes.] 

John  [irritably].  This  is  a  damned  uncomfort- 
able house.     I'm  starving. 

Ann.     It's  Committee  day. 

John.  He'll  be  having  the  whole  Board  on  his 
toes  as  usual,  I  suppose. 

Ann.  That  Board'll  be  the  death  of  him. 
When  I  think  of  the  old  days  when  he'd  no-one  to 
please  but  himself! 

John.     He's  stood  it  for  five  years.     I  wouldn't 


ACT  I  aT 

—  being  badgered  by  a  lot  of  directors  who  know 
as  much  about  glass-making  as  you  do. 

Ann.  That's  all  very  well.  But  when  you  bor- 
row money  you've  got  to  be  respectful  one  way 
and  another.  If  he  hadn't  gone  to  the  Bank  how 
would  Rutherfords'  ha'  gone  on? 

John  [wJio  has  taken  up  tJw  newspaper  and  is 
half  reading  it  as  he  talks'].  Wliy  should  it  go 
on.f* 

Ann  [^sJmrplyl.     Wliat's  that.? 
John.     Why  didn't  he  sell  the  place  when  he 
could  have  made  a  decent  profit. 

Ann  \_scandalised'\.  Sell  Rutherfords'.''  Just 
you  let  your  father  hear  you. 

John.  I  don't  care  if  he  does.  I  never  can 
imagine  why  he  hangs  on  —  working  his  soul  out 
year  after  year. 

Ann  [^conclusively'].  It's  his  duty.  {She  re- 
sumes her  knitting.] 

John.  Duty  —  rot!  He  likes  it.  He's  gone 
on  too  long.  He  couldn't  stop  and  rest  if  he  tried. 
When  I  make  a  few  thousands  out  of  this  little  idea 
of  mine  I'm  going  to  have  everything  I  want,  and 
forget  all  about  the  dirt  and  the  ugliness,  the  clat- 
ter and  bang  of  the  machinery,  the  sickening  hot 
smell  of  the  furnaces  —  all  the  things  I've  hated 
from  my  soul. 

Arm  [who  has  'become  absorbed  in  a  dropped 
stitch] .  Aye  weel  .  .  .  there's  another  strike 
at  Rayner's,  they  tell  me. 


28  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

John.  Yes.  Eight  hundred  men.  That's  the 
second  this  year. 

Ann.  You  don't  think  it'll  happen  here,  do 
you.? 

John.  I  can't  say.  They're  smashing  things 
at  Rayner's. 

Ann.  It'll  no'  come  here.  The  men  think  too 
much  of  your  father  for  that. 

John.     I'm  not  so  sure. 

Arm,.  There  was  the  beginnings  of  a  strike  once 
— •  years  ago.  And  he  stopped  it  then.  The  men 
at  the  furnaces  struck  work  —  said  it  was  too  hard 
for  'n.  And  your  father  he  went  doon  into  the 
caves  and  took  his  coat  off  afore  them  all,  and 
pitched  joost  half  as  much  coal  again  as  the  best 
of  'em  —  now ! 

John.  Yes,  that's  the  sort  of  argument  they  can 
see  —  it  catches  hold  of  the  brute  in  them.  If  the 
Guv'nor  had  sat  quietly  in  his  office  and  sent  his 
ultimatum  through  the  usual  channels,  he  would 
have  been  the  owner  of  Rutherfords',  and  the 
strike  would  have  run  its  course.  Shovelling  coal 
in  his  shirt  with  his  muscles  straining,  and  the  sweat 
pouring  off  him,  he  was  "  wor  John  " —  and  there's 
three  cheers  for  his  fourteen  stone  of  beef  and 
muscle.  That  was  all  very  well  —  thirty  years 
ago. 

Ann.     And  what's  to  hinder  it  now? 

John.  Oh,  the  Guv'nor  was  a  bit  of  a  hero  then 
—  an  athlete,  a  runner.     The  men  who  worked  for 


ACT  I  29 

him  all  the  week  crowded  to  see  him  run  on  Satur- 
day afternoons  —  Martin's  told  me.  But  when 
all's  said  and  done,  Rutherfords'  is  a  money-mak- 
ing machine.  And  the  Guv'nor's  the  only  man 
who  doesn't  know  it.     He's  getting  old. 

Ann  '[crossli/'\.  To  hear  you  talk  a  body  would 
think  we  were  all  going  to  die  to-morrow.  Your 
father's  a  year  younger  nor  me  —  now  1  And  a 
fine  up-standing  man  forbye. 

John  \^wJio  is  looking  at  himself  in  the  glass 
above  the  mantelpiece'].  Oh,  he  knows  how  to  man- 
age a  pack  of  savages. 

Ann.  There's  not  one  of  'em  to-day  or  thirty 
years  ago  but'll  listen  to  him. 

John.  He'd  knock  any  one  down  who  didn't. 
[^Janet  comes  in  with  a  tray  and  begins  to  set  cups 
and  saucers  on  the  table.] 

Ann.  They  all  stood  by  him  when  the  trouble 
came,  every  one  of  'em.  And  he's  climbed  up 
steady  ever  since,  and  never  looked  ahint  him. 
And  now  you've  got  your  invention  it'll  no'  be  long 
now  —  if  it's  all  you  think  it.  Ah,  it  'ud  be  grand 
to  see  Rutherfords'  like  old  times  again. 

John.  Rutherfords'.  .  .  .  [He  speaJcs  half 
seriously,  half  to  tease  Ann].  Aunt  Ann,  have 
you  ever  in  your  life  —  just  for  a  moment  at  the 
back  of  your  mind  —  wished  Rutherfords'  at  the 
bottom  of  the  Tyne?  \^Ann  gazes  at  him  in  silence. 
When  she  speaks  agavn  it  is  as  to  a  foolish  child.] 

An/n.     Are  you  taking  your  medicine  reg'lar.? 


30  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

John.  Yes.  But  have  you  ever  heard  of  Mo- 
loch?    No. —  Well,  Moloch  was  a  sort  of  a  God 

—  some  time  ago,  you  know,  before  Dick  and  his 
kind  came  along.  They  built  his  image  with  an 
ugly  head  ten  times  the  size  of  a  real  head,  with 
great  wheels  instead  of  legs,  and  set  him  up  in  the 
middle  of  a  great  dirty  town.  \Janet,  busy  at  the 
table,  stops  to  listen,  raising  her  eyes  almost  for 
the  frst  time.~\  And  they  thought  him  a  very  im- 
portant person  indeed,  and  made  sacrifices  to  him 

—  human  sacrifices  —  to  keep  him  going,  you 
know.  Out  of  every  family  they  set  aside  one 
child  to  be  an  offering  to  him  when  it  was  big 
enough,  and  at  last  it  became  a  sort  of  honour  to 
be  dedicated  in  this  way,  so  much  so,  that  the  vic- 
tims gave  themselves  gladly  to  be  crushed  out  of 
life  under  the  great  wheels.  That  was  Moloch. 
[There  is  a  silence.     Janet  speaks  eagerly.^ 

Janet.     Where  did  you  get  that.'' 

John.     Get  what.? 

Janet.     What  you've  been  saying. 

John.     Everybody  knows  it. 

Janet.  Dedicated  —  we're  dedicated  —  all  of 
us  —  to  Rutherf ords'.  And  being  respected  in 
Grantley. 

Ann.  Talk,  talk  —  chatter,  chatter.  Words 
never  mended  nothing  that  I  knows  on. 

John  l^who  is  tired  of  the  stibjecf].  Talk  —  if 
I  hadn't  you  to  talk  to,  Aunt  Ann,  or  Mary,  I  think 
I'd  talk  to  the  door-post. 


ACT  I  31 

Janet  \wlio  has  slipped  back  into  her  dull  list- 
lessness^.  And  just  as  much  good  would  come  of 
it,  I  dare  say. 

Ann.  And  who  are  you  to  say  It?  You  got  no 
book-learning  like  him  —  and  no  invention  neither. 

Janet  [^who  is  laying  forks  round  the  table'\. 
How  do  you  know  he's  got  an  invention? 

Ann.  Because  he  says  so,  o'  course  —  how  else? 
It's  a  secret. 

Janet.  John  always  had  a  secret.  He  used  to 
sell  them  to  me  when  we  were  little.  And  when  I'd 
given  him  whatever  it  was  he'd  taken  a  fancy  to, 
there  was  no  secret.  Nothing  worth  paying  for, 
anyway. 

John.     Oh,  shut  up. 

Ann  [as  if  they  were  children^.  Now,  now. 
Don't  quarrel. 

Janet.     We're  not  quarrelling. 

John.     Yes,  we  are.     And  you  began  it. 

Janet.  I  didn't.  I  only  said  what  any  one  can 
see.  [Scornfully.']  You  make  an  invention. 
Likely. 

John.     A  lot  you  know  about  it. 

Janet.  If  you  did,  you'd  muck  it  somehow,  just 
as  you  do  everything. 

Ann  [querulously].  Bairns!  Bairns!  One 
would  think  you'd  never  growed  up. 

John  [angrily  to  Janet].  I  wish  you'd  keep 
quiet  if  you  can't  say  anything  decent.  You  never 
open  your  mouth  except  to  say  something  disagree- 


3^  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

able.  First  there's  Mary  throwing  cold  water,  then 
jou  come  in. 

Janet.  I'm  not  any  more  disagreeable  than  any 
one  else.  We're  all  disagreeable  if  it  comes  to 
that.     All  except  Susan. 

Ann.  Susan's  not  one  of  the  family !  A  com- 
mon servant  lass. 

Janet.     Like  me. 

Ann  [using  the  family  tTireat'\.  Just  you  let 
your  father  hear  you. 

Janet.     We  do  the  same  things. 

Ann.  Susan's  paid  for  it.  Whoever  gave  you 
a  farthing.'* 

Janet  \hitterly'\.     Aye! 

Ann.     Has  she  made  another  girdle  cake.'' 

Janet.  I  didn't  notice.  She's  probably  talking 
to  her  young  man  at  the  gate. 

John.     Susan  with  a  young  man  ! 

Ann.  Yes,  indeed  —  a  nice  thing,  and  her 
turned  forty. 

John.  Ugliest  woman  I  ever  saw  bar  none. 
Who  is  it.?  Not  Martin  surely!  [Janet  stopa 
suddenly  and  looks  at  him.'\  I've  noticed  he's 
been  making  excuses  to  come  about  lately,  and  he's 
taken  the  cottage  at  the  Tarn. 

Janet  [with  a  sudden  stillnessl.  It  isn't  Mar- 
tin. 

John.  Well,  if  it  is,  the  Guv'nor  would  soon  put 
a  stop  to  it. 

Janet.     Put  a  stop  to  what? 


ACT  I 

John.  Martin  getting  married  —  if  it's  that 
he's  after? 

Janet.     What  right's  he  to  interfere? 

John.  Right  —  nonsense !  Martin  practically 
lives  at  the  Works,  as  It  Is.  If  he  had  a  wife  he'd 
get  to  be  just  hke  the  other  men  —  hankering  after 
going  home  at  the  proper  time,  and  all  that. 

Ann  [-preparing  to  leave  the  room\.  You  and 
your  gossip  —  and  the  dinner  spoiling  every  min- 
ute. [With  a  parting  shot  at  Janet. '[  It's  a  good 
thing  nobody's  married  you  —  a  nice  house  you'd 
make  without  me  to  look  to  everything.  [She 
fusses  out.^ 

John.  Married!  Cheer  up,  Janet!  Thirty- 
five  last  birthday,  isn't  it  ? 

Mary.     John ! 

Janet  [her  voice  hard^.  No,  it  isn't.  It's  thir- 
ty-six. 

John.  You'll  make  a  happy  home  for  some  one 
yet.     No  one's  asked  you  so  far,  I  suppose? 

Janet.     Who's  there  been  to  ask  me  ? 

John.  Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  suppose  you  have 
been  kept  pretty  close.  Other  girls  manage  it, 
don't  they? 

Janet.     I  don't  know  other  girls. 

John.     Mary  caught  me. 

Janet.     I  don't  know  anybody  —  you  know  that. 
No  one  in  Grantley's  good  enough  for  us,  and  we're 
not  good  enough  for  the  other  kind. 
John.     Speak  for  yourself. 


34  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

Janet.  Oh,  we're  all  alike;  don't  you  fret. 
Why  hasn't  young  Squire  Earnshaw  invited  you  to 
shoot  with  him  again  ?  He  did  once  —  when  none 
of  his  grand  friends  were  there.  {John  pretends 
not  to  liear.^ 

Janet.     I  know  why. 

John.     Oh,  you  know  a  lot,  don't  you.? 

Janet.  It  was  because  you  pretended  —  pre- 
tended 3^ou  knew  the  folk  he  talked  about,  because 
you'd  show  them  over  the  Works  once  when  father 
was  away.  Pretended  you  said  "  parss  "  for  pass 
every  day.  I  heard  you.  And  I  saw  the  differ- 
ence. Gentlemen  are  natural.  Being  in  company 
doesn't  put  them  about.  They  don't  say  thank 
you  to  servants  neither,  not  like  you  do  to  Susan. 

John.     Oh,  shut  up,  will  you.'' 

Janet.  I  wouldn't  pretend  whatever  I  did  — 
mincing  round  like  a  monkey. 

Ann  [^coming  in  from  the  kitchen'].     Now,  now. 
That's  the   door,  isn't  it.''      [^They  all  listen.     A' 
voice  is  heard  outside,  then  the  outer  door  opens.] 

John.     Father. 

Janet.  Martin.  [There  is  the  sound  of  a  stick 
being  put  into  the  umbrella  stand;  then  John  Ruth- 
erford comes  in,  followed  hy  Martin.  He  is  a 
heavily  built  man  of  sixty,  with  a  heavy  lined  face 
and  tremendous  shoulders  —  a  typical  north  coun- 
tryman.  There  is  a  distinct  change  in  the  man- 
ner of  the  whole  family  as  he  comes  in  and 
walks   straight   to   his   desk   as   if   the   door   had 


ACT  I  35 

scarcely  interrupted  his  walk.  Martin  is  a  good- 
looking  man  of  the  best  type  of  "working  man. 
Very  simple  in  manner  and  hearing  —  about  forty 
years  of  age.  He  touches  his  forelock  to  the  fam- 
ily and  stands  beside  the  door  with  nothing  servile 
in  either  action.^ 

Rutherford  [talking  as  he  comes  in'\.     and 

it's  got  to  be  managed  somehow.  Lads  are  wanted 
and  lads'll  have  to  be  found.  Only  six  out  of  the 
seventeen  shops  started  the  first  shift  o'  Monday. 

Martin.  Grey  couldn't  start  at  all  last  week  for 
want  o'  lads. 

Rutherford.  What's  got  them  ?  Ten  years  ago 
you  could  have  had  fifty  for  the  asking,  and  taken 
your  pick.  And  now  here's  the  work  waiting  to 
be  done,  and  half  the  hands  we  want  to  do  it  loun- 
ging about  Grantley  with  their  hands  in  their 
breeches  pockets,  the  beggars.  What  do  they 
think  they're  bred  for.?^ 

Martin.  There's  too  many  of  'em  making  for 
the  towns,  that's  it.     It's  lighter  work. 

Rutherford.  Just  remind  me  to  give  the  men  a 
word  o'  wages  time  o'  Saturday.  They  got  to  keep 
their  lads  at  home  as  long  as  they're  wanted  at 
Rutherfords'.  \_Tuming  papers  and  a  hunch  of 
keys  out  of  his  pocket  on  the  desk.^  The  new  lear 
man's  shaping  all  right  then. 

Martin.  Dale?  Knows  as  much  aboot  a  pot- 
arch  as  I  knows  aboot  a  flying-machine. 

Rutherford.     Why  didn't  you  tell  me  before? 


36  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

Mart'vn.  I  thought  I'd  wait  to  give  him  a  trial. 
I  took  a  look  at  the  flues  myself  to  make  sure  it 
wasn't  them  at  fault.  He  can't  get  the  heat  up 
properly,  and  the  pots  are  put  into  the  furnaces 
afore  they're  furnace  heat.  They'll  all  be  broke 
one  o'  these  days. 

Rutherford.     We'd  better  take  on  Ford. 

Martin.     He  finishes  at  Cardiff  Saturday. 

Rutherford.     He'll  do,  I  suppose.?' 

Martin  \_feeling  in  his  pocket  and  pulling  out  a 
leather  purse  or  bagl.  You  couldn't  get  a  better 
man  for  the  job  in  all  Tyneside.  There's  the  ten 
pound  young  Henderson  had  out  o'  the  cash-box. 
\^He  counts  it  out  on  desk.l^ 

Rutherford.     What!     He's  given  it  up? 

Martin.     Aye.     Leastways,  I  took  it  off  him. 

Rutherford.     Has  he  owned  to  it.? 

Martin.  Sure  enough.  Said  he  hadn't  gone 
for  to  do  it.     Cried  like  a  bairn,  he  did. 

John  [from  his  arm-chair  hy  the  pre'\.  Hen- 
derson.?    Has  he  been  stealing.? 

Martin.  Aye,  Mr.  John.  I  caught  him  at  it  i' 
the  office  —  at  dinner-time  when  there's  nobody 
much  about  —  wi'  his  hands  i'  the  box. 

John.  Dirty  little  sweep !  Have  you  kicked 
him  out.? 

Rutherford  [pausing  with  his  hand  on  his  cash- 
&o<r].     I  suppose  there's  no  doubt  he's  a  bad  'un.? 

Martin.     Bred  and  born. 

Rutherford.     No  use  giving  him  another  chance. 


ACT  I  37 

Martin.     Throwed  away  on  the  likes  o'  him. 
Rutherford  [locking  the  hox  and  putting  it  in  a 
drawer'\.     Ah.     .     .     .     Well,  if  he  comes  back, 
turn  him  away.     Everything  ready  for  the  pot- 
setting  in  the  morning.'' 

Martin.  Aye,  sir.  The  night  shift'll  set  four 
when  they  stop,  and  the  other  shift'll  set  the  others 
a  bit  later. 

Rutherford.     You'll  be  there  to  see  them  do  it? 
Martin.     Surely. 

Rutherford    [with    a   curious   softening   in   his 
'voice'\.     When'll  you  get  your  rest? 
Martin.     Plenty  o'  time  for  that,  sir. 
Rutherford  [crossing  to  fire'].     We'll  have  you 
on  strike  one  o'  these  days,  Martin. 

Martin  [turning  to  go].  Not  me,  sir.  When 
you  begin  to  spare  yourself  you  can  begin  to  think 
about  sparing  me.  And  next  week  things'll  go 
easier.     ...     Is  that  all  for  the  night,  sir? 

Rutherford  [wearily'].  Aye.  Good-night  to  ye. 
[He  has  taken  his  pipe  from  the  rack  above  the 
mantelpiece  and  is  filli/ng  it.]  You've  further  to 
go  now  ye're  in  the  Tarn  Cottage.  [There  is  a 
slight  pause  before  Martin  replies.] 
Martin.  Aye.  A  bit  mebbee. 
Rutherford  [lighting  his  pipe].  I  —  should 
ha' — thought  you'd  had  done  better  to  stick  to 
your  old  one  —  near  at  hand ;  but  you  know  your 
own  business  best. 

Martin.     It's  weel  enough. 


38  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

Ann.  Now  Martin's  here,  can  he  no'  take  a  look 
at  the  range?     Susan  canna  get  the  oven  to  go. 

Janet  [to  Ann^.     The  oven's  all  right. 

Rutherford  \^with  a  complete  change  of  voice 
and  mamier^.  Now  what's  that  got  to  do  with 
Martin.? 

An7i  \_subsidmg^.  He  could  tell  Baines  to  send 
up  a  man  i'  the  mornin'. 

Rutherford.  That's  not  Martin's  business  — 
you  must  send  word  to  Baines  liimself. 

Martin.  I  could  easy  take  a  look  at  it  while  I'm 
here,  sir.     It  'ud  save  you  sending. 

Rutherford  \wearily'\.  Oh,  all  right.  If  you 
want  a  job. 

Ann.  Janet,  go  and  show  Martin.  [Martin 
turns  at  the  door  and  looks  for  her  to  pass  out  be- 
fore him.^ 

Janet  [stafiding  motionless^.  Susan  can  show 
him.      [Martin  goes,  closing  the  door.'\ 

Rutherford.     Any  letters.'' 

Ann  [flurried^.  Yes.  They're  somewheres. 
Janet 

Rutherford  [with  the  sudden  irritation  of  a 
tired  man^.  Bless  me,  can't  I  have  a  simple  thing 
like  that  done  for  me?  How  often  have  I  said  to 
put  them  in  one  place  and  stick  to  it?  [Janet 
discovers  the  letters  on  the  small  table  by  the  door 
and  brings  them  to  him.  He  sits  on  the  settle  and 
stretches  out  his  legs.^     Here,  take  them  off  for 


ACT  I  39 

me.  I'm  dead  beat.  [^After  a  momenfs  silent  re- 
volt she  kneels  and  begins  to  unlace  his  boots.  He 
looks  at  her  bent  sullen  face.'\  Ah!  sulk}^  are  ye? 
[S'he  makes  no  answer. 1  'Ud  like  to  tell  me  to 
take  them  off  myself,  I  dare  say.  And  I  been 
working  the  day  long  for  you.  [Getting  irritated 
at  her  touch.']  Spoilt  —  that's  what  you  are,  my 
lass.  [Opening  a  letter.]  What's  this?  A  po- 
lite letter  from  the  vicar,  eh  ?  Damn  polite  —  a 
new  organ  —  that's  his  trouble  —  thinks  I'd  like 
to  help  pay  for  it.  [He  throws  it  across  the 
hearthrug  to  John.]  There's  a  job  for  you  — 
you're  idle  enough.  Write  and  tell  His  Reverence 
to  go  to  the  devil  and  ask  him  for  an  organ.  Or 
mebbee  Richard'll  like  to  do  it,  as  he's  his  curate. 
[To  Janet.]  Let  be,  let  be.  [He  takes  his  boots 
off  painfully  one  with  the  other.] 

Ann  [plaintively].     I'm  sure  the  vicar  came  in 
pleasant  enough  not  a  week  gone,  and  asked  for 


'ee 


Rutherford.  Asked  for  my  money,  you  mean. 
They're  civil  enough  when  they  want  anything,  the 
lot  of  them.  [To  Janet  —  sarcastically,  as  she 
carries  the  boots  away.]  Thank  'ee  kindly.  [He 
gets  up  and  puts  his  slippers  on.  Ann  speaks  in  a 
flurried  whisper  to  John.] 

Ann.     John,  you've  got  your  father's  ohair. 

John  [gets  up].     Sorry. 

Rutherford  [drags  the  chair  up  to  the  table,  and 


40  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

sits  down  as  if  he  were  tired  out.  He  looks  at 
John  with  a  curiously  interested  expression  as  he 
lounges  across^.     Feeling  better? 

John  [uneasy  and  consequently  rather  swagger- 
ing'\.     Oh,  I'm  still  a  bit  shaky  about  the  knees. 

Rutherford.  You'll  be  coming  back  to  work,  I 
suppose.  There's  plenty  to  be  done.  How's  the 
little  lad.? 

John.  I  don't  know  —  all  right,  I  suppose. 
Isn't  he,  Mary.? 

Mary.     Mr.  Rutherford  asked  you. 

John.  But  I  don't  know.  {Rutherford  looks 
at  Mary,  she  at  him;  there  is  a  pause. ~\ 

Rutherford  \husy  with  his  letters'],  I  thought 
Gibson  had  forbidden  you  to  smoke  ?  [John  rebels 
for  a  moment,  then  throws  his  cigarette  into  the 
fire,  with  an  action  like  a  petted  child.] 

John.     I  must  do  something. 

Rutherford.  What  have  you  been  busy  with  to- 
day ?     .     .     .     This  —  metal  o'  yours  ?     Eh  ? 

John  [evasively].  Aunt  Ann's  been  talking 
about  it. 

Ann  [meaning  well].  We've  joost  been  saying 
how  it'll  all  come  right  now  —  all  the  bother. 
John'll  do  it  —  Rutherf  ords'  '11  be  itself  again. 

Rutherford.  Martin  tells  me  you've  hit  on  a 
good  thing' — a  big  thing.  .  .  .  I've  got  to 
hear  more  about  it,  eh? 

John.     If  you  like. 

RutJierford.     What's     that.?     [He     looks     up 


ACT  I  41 

slowly  under  his  eyebrows  —  a  long  curious  look, 
as  if  he  saw  the  first  possibility  of  opposition.^ 

John  \_going  over  to  the  fire-place~\.  Can't  we 
have  dinner? 

Ann.  You're  getting  back  your  appetite. 
That's  a  good  sign. 

Rutherford.  Dinner  can  wait.  \^He  sweeps  a 
space  clear  on  the  table  and  puts  his  letters  down. 
Janet  presently  sits  down  resigned  to  a  family  row. 
Mary  listens  throughout  intently,  her  eyes  con- 
stantly fixed  on  John.']  I'm  a  business  man,  and 
I  hke  to  know  how  I  stand.  \_Launching  at  Johii.] 
Now  —  what  d'ye  mean  ? 

John.     I  don't  understand  you,  sir. 

Rutherford.     What's  there  to  understand? 

John  l^Jiis  manner  gradually  slipping  into  that 
of  a  child  afraid  of  its  father.]  Well,  I've  been 
away  from  the  Works  for  two  months.  Before  we 
begin  to  talk  about  the  other  thing,  I'd  like  to 
know  what's  doing. 

Rutherford.  What's  that  got  to  do  with  it? 
You  never  have  known  what's  doing. 

John.     I  think  I  ought  to  be  told  —  now. 

Rutherford.  Now!  That's  it,  is  it?  You 
want  a  bone  flung  to  your  dignity !  Well,  here  it 
is.     Things  are  bad. 

John.     Really  bad? 

Rutherford.  For  the  present.  These  colliery 
strikes  one  on  top  of  another,  for  one  thing.  Ray- 
ner's  drew  the  ponies  out  of  the  pit  this  afternoon. 


4a  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

John.     It'll  about  smash  them,  won't  it? 

Rutherford.  Mebbee.  The  question  is  how  it 
affects  us. 

John.     Oh !     We  get  coal  from  them  ? 

Rutherford.  I  should  have  thought  you'd  ha' 
picked  up  that  much  —  in  five  years. 

John.     Stoking  isn't  my  business. 

Rutherford.     You  might  have  noticed  the  name 
on  the  trucks  —  you  see  it  every  day  of  your  life. 
Well,  yes  —  we  get  our  coal  from  them. 
What  then. ?> 

John.  Well  —  what's  going  to  happen  ?  How 
bad  is  it? 

Rutherford.  I  said  —  bad  for  the  present. 
The  balance-sheet  for  the  year's  just  been  drawn 
up  and  shows  a  loss  of  four  thousand  on  last  year's 
working.  It's  not  a  big  loss,  considering  what's 
been  against  us  —  those  Americans  dumping  all 
that  stuff  in  the  spring  —  we  had  to  stop  that  lit- 
tle game,  and  it  cost  us  something  to  do  it.  Then 
the  price  of  materials  has  gone  up,  there's  a  dif- 
ference there.  [Irritably,  answering  his  ozem 
thought  S.I  It's  not  ruin,  bless  us- — ^it's  simply 
a  question  of  work  and  sticking  together;  but  the 
Bank's  rather  more  difficult  to  manage  than  usual. 
There's  not  one  of  'em  would  sacrifice  a  shilling  of 
their  own  to  keep  the  old  place  going  —  they  want 
their  fees  reg'lar.  That's  their  idea  of  the  com- 
mercial   enterprise  they're   always   talking   about. 


ACT  I  43 

It's  the  pulse  they  keep  their  finger  on  —  when  it 
misses  a  beat,  they  come  crowding  round  with  their 
hands  up  hke  a  lot  of  damned  old  women.  .  .  . 
Well,  well !  Something's  wanted  to  pull  things  to- 
gether. .  .  .  Now  —  this  idea  of  yours. 
Martin  tells  me  it's  worth  something. 

John  [nettled].  Worth  sometliing?  It's  worth 
thousands  a  year  to  any  one  who  works  it  prop- 
erly. 

Rutherford  [mith  his  half  smilel.  Tliousands! 
That's  a  fair  margin.  [Drily.']  What's  your 
calculation  in  figures? 

Johii.     That  depends  on  the  scale  it's  worked  on. 
Rutherford  [as  to  a  child].     Yes  —  so  I  sup- 
posed.    What's  your  preliminary  cost? 

John  [getting  nervous].  Nothing  —  as  far  as 
I  know.  I  can't  say  for  certain  —  something  like 
that. 

Rutherford.  Something  like  nothing;  and  on 
something  hke  nothing  you're  going  to  show  a 
profit  of  thousands  a  year  on  a  single  metal. 
[Drily.]  Sounds  like  a  beautiful  dream,  doesn't 
it?  About  your  cost  of  working  now  —  that 
should  run  you  into  something? 

John  [who  is  getting  annoyed].  Thirty  per 
cent,  less  than  what  you're  working  at  now. 

Rutherford.  Indeed.  .  .  .  May  I  ask 
where  and  how  you've  carried  out  your  experi- 
ments ? 


44  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

John  \uneasily'\.  I  didn't  mention  it  to  you. 
A  year  ago  I  got  a  muffle  furnace.  I've  worked 
with  it  from  time  to  time,  in  the  old  pot-loft. 

Rutherford.     Paid  for  it  by  any  chance.'* 

John.     Not  yet. 

Rutherford.  How  did  you  manage  for  coals 
now? 

John.     I  —  took  what  I  wanted  from  the  heap. 

Rutherford.  Ah,  and  your  materials  —  I  sup- 
pose you  took  what  you  wanted  of  those  too? 
Well,  I've  no  objection,  if  you  can  make  it  good. 
[^Suddenly .1     What's  your  receipt? 

John.  I  haven't  —  I'm  not  prepared  to  say. 
\There  is  a  silence.  Ann  lowers  her  knitting  with 
an  alarmed  look.l 

Rutherford  \h£a'vUy'\.  A  week  or  two  ago  in 
this  room  you  told  me  it  was  perfected  —  ready  for 
working  to-morrow. 

John.     Yes  —  I  told  you  so. 

Rutherford  l^suppressedli.  What  d'ye  mean? 
.  .  Come,  come,  sir  —  I'm  your  father,  I 
want  an  answer  to  my  question  —  a  plain  answer, 
if  you  can  give  one. 

John  [^in  a  high-pitched,  nervous  voice'].  I  — 
I'm  a  business  man,  and  I  want  to  know  where  I 
stand.  {^Rutherford  breaks  into  a  laugh].  Oh. 
you  turn  me  into  an  impudent  school-boy,  but  I'm 
not,  I'm  a  man,  with  a  thing  in  my  mind  worth  a 
fortune. 


ACT  I  45 

Ann.  John!  [^Asserting  her  authority. ~\  You 
must  tell  your  father. 

John  {very  excited'].  I  shan't  tell  him  till  I've 
taken  out  my  patent,  so  there.  [There  is  a  pause 
■ —  Rutherford  stares  at  his  son.] 

Rutherford  Iheavilyl.     What  d'ye  mean? 

John.     I  mean  what  I  say.     I  want  my  price. 

Rutherford.  Your  price  —  your  price  ?  [Bring- 
ing his  fist  down  on  the  fafeZ^.]  Damn  your  im- 
pudence, sir.  A  whippersnapper  like  you  to  talk 
about  your  price. 

John  [losing  his  temper'].  I'm  not  a  whipper- 
snapper.  I've  got  something  to  sell  and  you  want 
to  buy  it,  and  there's  an  end. 

Rutherford.  To  buy?  To  sell?  And  this  to 
your  father? 

John.  To  any  man  who  wants  what  I've  made. 
[There  is  a  dead  silence  on  this,  broken  only  by 
an  involuntary  nervous  movement  from  the  rest  of 
the  family.  Then  Rutherford  speaks  xi^ithout 
moving.] 

Rutlierford.  Ah!  So  that's  your  line,  Is  it? 
.  .  .  This  is  what  I  get  for  all  I've  done  for 
you.  .  .  .  This  is  the  result  of  the  schooling 
I  give  you. 

John  [with  an  attempt  at  a  swagger].  I  sup- 
pose you  mean  Harrow. 

Rutherford.  It  was  two  hundred  pound  — 
that's  what  I  mean. 


46  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

John.     And  you  gave  me  a  year  of  it ! 

Rutherford.  And  a  lot  of  good  you've  got  of 
it.  .  .  .  What  ha'  you  done  with  it?  Idled 
your  time  away  wi'  your  books  o'  poetry  when  you 
should  ha'  been  working.  Married  a  wife  who 
bears  you  a  bairn  you  can't  keep.  [At  a  move- 
ment from  Mary.^  Aye  —  hard  words  mebbee. 
What  will  you  do  for  your  son  when  the  time 
comes  ?  I've  toiled  and  sweated  to  give  you  a  name 
you'd  be  proud  to  own  —  worked  early  and  late, 
toiled  like  a  dog  when  other  men  were  taking  their 
ease  —  plotted  and  planned  to  get  my  chance, 
taken  it  and  held  it  when  it  come  till  I  could  ha' 
burst  with  the  struggle.  Sell!  You  talk  o'  sell- 
ing to  me,  when  everything  you'll  ever  make 
couldn't  pay  back  the  life  I've  given  to  you! 

John.     Oh,  I  know,  I  know. 

Anm^.     You  mustn't  answer  your  father,  John. 

John.  Well,  after  all,  I  didn't  ask  to  be 
born. 

Rutherford,  Nor  did  the  little  lad,  God  help 
him. 

John  [rapidly'].  Look  here,  father  —  why  did 
you  send  me  to  Harrow.? 

Rutherford.  Why?  To  make  a  gentleman  of 
you,  and  because  I  thought  they'd  teach  you  bet- 
ter than  the  Grammar  School.     I  was  mistaken. 

John.  They  don't  turn  out  good  clerks  and  of- 
fice boys. 

Rutherford.     What's  that? 


ACT  I  47 

John.  I've  been  both  for  five  years.  Only  I've 
had  no  salary. 

Rutherford.  You've  been  put  to  learn  your 
business  like  any  other  young  fellow.  I  began  at 
the  bottom  —  you've  got  to  do  the  same.  There'll 
not  be  two  masters  at  Rutherfords'  while  I'm  on 
my  legs. 

John.  That's  it,  that's  it.  You  make  a  serv- 
ant of  me. 

Rutherford.  What  do  you  suppose  your  work's 
worth  to  Rutherfords'.?     Tell  me  that. 

John.  What's  that  matter  now.?  I've  done 
with  it.     I've  found  a  way  out. 

Rutherford.     A  way  out  —  of  what  ? 

John  [rather  taken  ahach^  Well  —  you  don't 
suppose  I'd  choose  to  live  here  all  my  life .? 

Arm  \takkig  it  personally'].  And  why  not, 
pray.? 

Rutherford.  Your  father  has  lived  here,  and 
your  grandfather  before  you.  It's  your  inherit- 
ance—  can't  you  realise  that.?  —  what  you've  got 
to  come  to  when  I'm  under  ground.  We've  made 
it  for  you,  stone  by  stone,  penny  by  penny,  fight- 
ing through  thick  and  thin  for  close  on  a  hundred 
years. 

John.  Well,  after  all,  I  can't  help  what  you 
and  grandfather  chose  to  do. 

Rutherford.  Chose  to  do !  There's  no  chose  to 
do.  The  thing's  there.  You're  my  son  —  my  son 
that's  got  to  come  after  me. 


48  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

John.  Oh,  it's  useless.  Our  ideas  of  life  are 
utterly  different. 

Rutherford.  Ideas  of  life!  What  do  you 
know  about  life.'' 

John.     Oh,  nothing,  of  course. 

Rutherford.  If  you  did,  you'd  soon  stop  hav- 
ing ideas  about  it.  Life!  I've  had  nigh  on  sixty 
years  of  it,  and  I'll  tell  you.  Life's  work  — 
keeping  your  head  up  and  your  heels  down.  Sleep, 
and  begetting  children,  rearing  them  up  to  work 
when  you're  gone  —  that's  life.  And  when  you 
know  better  than  the  God  who  made  you,  you  can 
begin  to  ask  what  you're  going  to  get  by  it.  And 
you'll  get  more  work  and  six  foot  of  earth  at  the 
end  of  it. 

John.  And  that's  what  you  mean  me  to  do,  is 
it.? 

Rutherford.  It's  what  you've  got  to  do  —  or 
starve.  You're  my  son  —  you've  got  to  come 
after  me. 

John.  Look  here,  father.  You  tell  me  all  this. 
Just  try  and  see  things  my  way  for  once.  Take 
the  Works.  I  know  you've  done  it  all,  built  it  up, 
and  all  that  —  and  you're  quite  right  to  be  proud 
of  it.  But  I  —  I  don't  like  the  place,  that's  the 
long  and  the  short  of  it.  It's  not  worth  my  while. 
After  all,  I've  got  myself  to  think  of  —  my  own 
life.  If  I'd  done  that  sooner,  by  Jove !  I'd  have 
been  a  jolly  sight  better  off.  I'd  not  have  mar- 
ried, for  one  thing.      \\Vith  a  glance  at  Mary.^ 


ACT  I  49 

Not  that  I  regret  that.  You  talk  about  what  you 
did  when  you  were  young.  You've  told  me  the  sort 
of  time  you've  had  —  nothing  but  grind,  grind, 
since  the  time  you  could  do  anything.  And  what 
have  you  got  by  it-f"  What  have  you  got.^*  I  have 
myself  to  think  of.     I  want  a  run  for  my  money 

—  your  money,  I  suppose  it  is  —  other  fellows  do. 
And  I've  made  this  thing  myself,  off  my  own  bat 

—  and  —  and — \_ending  lamely']. —  I  don't  see 
why  I  shouldn't  have  a  look  in.  .  .  .  On  my 
own  account.  .  .  .  [^There  is  an  uncomfort- 
able silence.] 

Rutherford  {in  a  new  toTie].  You're  going  to 
take  out  a  patent,  you  say? 

John  [taking  this  as  friendly].     Yes. 

Rutherford.  Know  anything  about  Patent 
Law-f* 

John.     Well,  no  —  not  yet. 

Rutherford.  It's  very  simple,  and  wonderfully 
cheap  —  three  pound  for  three  years.  At  the  end 
of  three  years,  you  can  always  extend  the  time  if 
you  want  to  —  no  difBculty  about  that. 

John.     Oh,  no. 

Rutherford.     But  you  can't  patent  a  metal. 

John.     I  don't  see  why  not. 

Rutherford.     What's  the  use  if  you  do  ? 

John.  It's  the  same  as  anything  else.  I  take 
out  a  patent  for  a  certain  receipt,  and  I  can  come 
down  on  any  one  who  uses  it. 

Rutherford.     And  prove  that  they've  used  it? 


50  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

John.  They  have  to  find  out  what  it  is  first. 
It's  not  likely  I'm  going  to  give  the  show  away. 
[Pmuse.^ 

Rutherford.     But  you  want  to  sell,  you  say. 

John.     Yes. 

Rutherford.  How  are  you  going  to  do  that 
without  giving  it  away?  .  .  .  Suppose  you 
go  to  one  of  the  big  chaps  —  Miles  of  Cardiff,  for 
example.  "  Here  you  are,"  you  say.  "  I've  got 
an  idea  worth  a  fortune.  Give  me  a  fortune  and 
I'll  tell  you  what  it  is."  He's  not  going  to  buy 
a  pig  in  a  poke  any  more  than  I  am.  People  have 
a  way  of  thinking  they're  going  to  make  their  for- 
tunes, d'ye  see.?  but  those  people  aren't  generally 
the  sort  you  let  loose  in  your  glass-house. 

John.  Of  course,  I  shall  make  inquiries  about 
all  that.     I  can't  say  till  I  know. 

Rutherford.  Do  3^ou  remember  a  little  thing  of 
mine  —  an  invention  you  would  call  it.  Did  ye 
ever  happen  to  see  it? 

John.     Yes.     Martin  showed  it  to  me  once. 

Rutherford.  What's  your  opinion  of  that  now 
—  as  a  business  man? 

John.  Of  course,  it  had  the  makings  of  a  good 
thing  • —  any  one  could  see  that. 

Rutherford.  Nobody  did.  I  was  nineteen  at 
the  time  —  a  lad.  Like  you,  I  hadn't  the  money 
to  run  it  myself.  Clinton,  the  American  people, 
got  hold  of  the  idea,  and  sold  seven  hundred  thou- 
sand of  it  the  first  six  months  in  New  York  alone. 


ACT  I  51 

\^He  gets  up  and  addresses  the  room,  generally. '\ 
Dinner  in  ten  minutes. 

John.     Surely  3'ou  could  have  got  some  one  to 
take  it  up  —  an  obvious  thing  like  that  ? 

Rutherford  \^drily'\.     That's  how  it  worked  out 
in  my  case.      \^He  moves  slowly  to  the  door.^ 

John.     You  don't  believe  I  can  do  what  I  say. 

Rutherford.     I  can't  tell  —  nor  can  you. 

John     \_high-handed^.     Oh,     very     well     then. 
What  are  we  talking  about? 

Rutherford.  You  undertake  to  produce  ordi- 
nary white  metal  at  a  third  of  the  usual  cost  — 
that's  it,  isn't  it?  You've  worked  this  out  in  a 
muffle  furnace.  My  experience  of  muffle  furnaces 
is  that  they're  excellent  for  experimenting  in  a 
very  small  way.  A  child  can  hit  on  an  idea  for 
a  metal  —  provided  he's  materials  at  his  command, 
and  knows  a  bit  about  chemistry.  But  no  man  liv- 
ing can  estimate  the  cost  of  that  idea  until  it's 
worked  out  on  a  big  scale.  Your  receipt,  as  it 
stands,  isn't  worth  the  paper  it's  written  on.  \^As 
Rutherford  moves  again  towards  the  door  John 
makes  a  movement  to  stop  him.^ 

John.  Father,  look  here.  Here's  an  offer. 
Rutherford.  Thank  you  kindly. 
John.  If  you'll  let  me  have  a  pot  in  one  of  the 
big  furnaces  for  a  trial  —  I  swear  to  you,  on  my 
honour,  I'll  let  you  see  the  result  without  touching 
it,  after  I've  put  in  the  materials.  You  can  clay 
the  pots  up  —  seal  them,  if  you  like.     Let  me  do 


52  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

it  to-morrow;  I  can't  stand  hanging  on  like  this. 

Rutherford.     To-morrow!     Impossible. 

John.     Why  not? 

Rutherford.  You  can't  come  down  to  the 
Works  in  this  weather.  You'd  catch  cold,  and  be 
laid  up  again. 

John.  The  day  after  then  —  next  week  —  or, 
why  not  ?  —  let  Martin  do  it. 

Rutherford.  Martin.?  [He  turns  to  hole  at 
John,  struck  hy  a  new  thought.'^ 

John.  Why  not.?  He  can  do  it  as  well  as  I 
can. 

Rutherford.     Martin?     .     .     .     He  knows  then? 

John  [surprisedl.  Why,  he  talked  to  you 
about  it,  didn't  he? 

Rutherford.  Yes,  yes.  But  —  he's  got  the  re- 
ceipt ? 

John.  Yes  —  there's  no  difficulty  at  all.  Let 
him  mis  the  metal  and  clay  her  up,  and  you  can 
open  her  yourself.  Then  you'll  see.  You'll  take 
Martin's  word  for  it,  I  suppose?  Only,  for 
Heaven's  sake,  give  me  a  fair  chance. 

Rutherford  [moving  suddenly'].  Fair  chance 
be  damned,  sir.  You've  said  3'our  say,  and  I've 
said  mine.  Think  it  over!  [He  goes  out,  leaving 
John  standing  staring  after  him.] 

John  [under  his  breath  as  the  door  closes].  Oh, 
go  to  the  devil ! 

Ann.  For  shame  to  speak  so.  Just  let  him 
hear  you.     And  there,   dinncr'll   be   as   dry   as   a 


ACT  I  53 

bone,  and  I've  waited  so  long  I  don't  feel  as  if  I 
could  touch  a  morsel.  You  might  keep  your  busi- 
ness till  we'd  had  something  to  eat,  I  think.  [^She 
hurries  out.l 

Janet  [^zaith  a  sort  of  admiration'].  Now  you've 
done  it. 

John.  Done  it!  I've  jolly  well  let  him  know 
what  I  think  —  and  high  time,  too.  [Brokenlt/.'] 
It  isn't  fair  —  it  isn't  fair.  Old  bully.  What  am 
I  going  to  do? 

Janet  [^dropping  into  her  usual  tone].  Wliat 
you've  always  done,  I  suppose. 

John.     What's  that.? 

Janet.  Say  you're  sorry.  It's  the  soonest  way 
back. 

John.  I'm  not  going  back.  Sooner  than  give 
in,  I'll  starve.  I  don't  care.  I'll  go  to  London, 
Canada,  anywhere.  He  shan't  have  me,  to  grind 
the  life  out  of  me  by  inches  —  and  he  shan't  have 
my  metal.  If  he  thinks  he's  going  to  pick  my 
brains  and  give  me  nothing  for  it,  he'll  find  him- 
self jolly  well  mistaken.  I  don't  care.  Once  and 
for  all,  I'm  going  to  make  a  stand.  And  he  can 
jolly  well  go  to  the  devil.  [Mary  speaks  for  the 
first  time,  in  a  low  'voice.'] 

Mary.     What  are  you  making  a  stand  for? 

John  [stopping  to  look  at  her.]  Good  Lord! 
Mary,  haven't  you  been  listening? 

Mary.  Yes,  I've  been  listening.  You  said  you 
wanted  your  price.     What  is  your  price? 


54j  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

Janet.  All  the  profits  and  none  of  the  work  — 
that's  John's  style.  [^Slie  sits  on  the  settle,  her 
chin  on  her  hands. ^ 

John.  A  lot  you  know  about  it.  \^Mar7j  speaks 
again.'\ 

Mary.     If  you  get  your  price,  what  will  you  do 

with  a? 

Janet.     He  won't  get  it. 

John  [to  Janef].  Do  you  suppose  I'm  going  to 
sit  down  under  his  bullying.'' 

Janet.     You've  done  it  all  your  life. 

John.     Well,  here's  an  end  of  it  then. 

Janet.  No  one  ever  stands  out  against  father 
for  long  —  you  know  that  —  or  else  they  get  so 
knocked  about,  they  don't  matter  any  more.  [She 
looks  at  Mary,  who  has  made  an  involuntary  move- 
ment.'\  Oh,  I  don't  mean  he  hits  them  —  that's 
not  his  way. 

John.     Oh,  don't  exaggerate. 

Janet.  Exaggerate  —  look  at  mother !  You 
were  too  young  —  I  remember — [To  Mary.^ 
You've  been  here  nigh  on  three  months.  If  you 
think  you're  going  to  change  this  house,  with  your 
soft  ways,  you're  mistaken.  Nothing'll  change  us 
now  —  nothing.  We're  made  that  way  —  set  — 
and  we've  got  to  live  that  way.  [Slozdy.'\  You 
think  you  can  make  John  do  something.  If  ever 
he  does  it'll  be  for  fear  of  father,  not  for  love  of 
you. 


ACT  I  55 

John.     What  do  you  mean?      {In  a  high  voice. 1 
If  you  think  I'm  going  to  give  in 

Janet.  You've  said  that  three  times.  I  know 
you're  going  to  give  in. 

John.     Well,  I'm  not  —  so  there. 

Janet.     What  will  you  do  then? 

John.  That's  my  business.  Curse  Ruther- 
fords'!     Curse  it! 

Janet  [to  Mary'].  That's  what  he'll  do. 
That's  what  he's  been  doing  these  five  years. 
And  what's  come  of  it?  He's  dragged  you  into 
the  life  here  —  and  Tony  —  that's  all.  ...  I 
knew  all  the  time  you'd  have  to  come  in  the  end, 
to  go  under,  like  the  rest  of  us. 

Mary  {qmclily'\.     No,  no 

Janet.  Who's  going  to  get  you  out  of  it? 
.  .  .  John?  .  .  .  You're  all  getting  ex- 
cited about  this  metal.  I  don't  know  whether  it's 
good  or  bad,  but,  anyway,  it  doesn't  count.  In  a 
few  days  John'll  make  another  row  for  us  to  sit 
round  and  listen  to.  In  a  few  days  more  he'll 
threaten  father  to  run  away.  He  can't,  because 
he's  nothing  separate  from  father.  When  he  gives 
up  his  receipt,  or  whatever  it  is,  it'll  go  to  help 
Rutherfords'  —  not  you  or  me  or  any  one,  just 
Rutherfords'.  And  after  a  bit  he'll  forget  about 
it  —  let  it  slide.  Like  the  rest  of  us  —  we've  all 
wanted  things,  one  way  and  another,  and  we've  let 
them  slide.  It's  no  good  standing  up  against 
father. 


56  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

John.  Oh,  who  listens  to  you?  Come  along, 
Mary  [moving  to  the  door'\.  Disagreeable  old 
maid!  [He  goes  out.  Mary  stands  in  the  same 
place  looking  at  Janet."] 

Mary.  Oh,  Janet,  no-one's  any  right  to  be 
what  he  is  — no-one's  any  right. 

John  [calling  from  the  haW],  MoUie!  I  want 
you.      [Irritably. Ji     Mollie! 

Mary.  Coming !  [She  follows  him.  Janet  re- 
mains in  the  same  attitude  —  her  chin  on  her 
hands,  staring  sullenly  before  her.  Suddenly  she 
bows  her  face  in  her  arms  and  begins  to  cry. 
Martin  comes  in  from  the  kitchen  on  his  way  out. 
As  he  reaches  the  door  leading  to  the  hall,  he  sees 
her  and  stops.] 

Martin  [in  a  whisper].  My  lass!  [She  starts 
and  gets  up  quicJdy.'] 

Janet.  Martin!  Martin!  [He  blunders  over 
to  her  and  takes  her  in  his  arms  with  a  rough  move- 
ment, holding  her  to  him  —  kisses  her  with  passion 
and  without  tenderness,  and  releases  her  suddenly. 
She  goes  to  the  fireplace,  and  leans  her  arms  on  the 
mantelpiece,  her  head  on  them  —  he  turns  away 
with  his  head  bent.     They  stand  so.] 

Martin  [as  if  the  words  were  dragged  from 
him].  Saturd'y  night  —  he's  away  to  Wickham 
—  at  the  Tarn.     .     .     .     Will  ye  come  ? 

Janet.  Yes.  [Martin  goes  to  the  door  at 
back.  As  he  reaches  it  John  Rutherford  comes 
into  the  room  with  some  papers  in  his  hand.     In 


ACT  I  57 

crossing  between  the  two,  he  stops  suddenly  as  if 
some  thought  had  struck  hi7n.^ 

Martin.     Good  night,  sir. 

Rutherford.  Good  night.  [^He  stands  looking 
at  Janet  till  the  outer  door  shuts.']  Why  don't 
you  say  good  night  to  Martin.?  It  'ud  be  more 
civil  —  wouldn't  it  ? 

Janet.  I  have  said  it.  [^Their  eyes  meet  for  a 
moment  —  she  moves  quickly  to  the  door.]  I'll 
tell  Susan  you're  ready.  [^Rutherford  is  left  alone. 
He  stands  in  the  middle  of  the  room  with  his  papers 
in  his  hand  —  motionless,  save  that  he  turns  his 
head  slowly  to  look  at  the  door  by  which  Martin 
has  gone  out.] 


ACT  II 

It  is  about  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening.  The  lamp 
is  burning  on  the  large  table.  Bedroom  can- 
dlesticks are  on  the  small  table  between  the 
•window  and  door. 

John  Rutherford  is  sitting  at  his  desk.  He  has 
been  writing,  and  now  sits  staring  in  front  of 
him  with  a  heavy  brooding  face.  He  does  not 
hear  Dick  as  he  comes  in  quietly  and  goes  to 
the  table  to  light  his  candle  —  then  changes 
his  mind,  looks  at  his  father,  and  comes  to 
the  fire  to  warm  his  hands.  He  looks  as  usu- 
al, pale  and  tired.  Rutherford  becomes  sud- 
denly aware  of  his  presence,  upon  which  Dick 
speaks  in  a  gentle^  nervous  tone. 

Dick.     I  should  rather  like  to  speak  to  you,  if 
you  could  spare  me  a  minute. 

Rutherford.     What's  the  matter  with  you? 

Dick.     The  matter? 

Rutherford.  You're  all  wanting  to  speak  to  me 
nowadays  —  what's  wrong  with  things  ?  .  .  . 
{Taking  up  his  pen.']  What's  the  bee  in  your 
bonnet  ? 

Dick  [announcing  his  news'].  I  have  been  of- 
fered the  senior  curacy  at  St.  Jude's,  Southport. 

58 


ACT  II  59 

Rutherford.     Well  —  have  you  taken  It  ? 

Dick  [^disappoinfedl.  I  could  not  do  so  with- 
out your  consent.  That's  what  I  want  to  speak  to 
you  about  —  if  you  could  spare  me  a  minute. 

Rutherford  [^reaUsing'\.  Ah!  that  means  you're 
giving  up  your  job  here.'' 

Dick.     Exactly. 

Rutherford.  Ah.  .  .  .  Just  as  well,  I 
daresay. 

Dick.  You  will  naturally  want  to  know  my  rea- 
sons for  such  a  step.  \^He  waits  for  a  reply  and 
gets  none.^  In  the  first  place,  I  have  to  consider 
my  future.  From  that  point  of  view  there  seems 
to  be  a  chance  of  —  of  more  success.  And  lately 
—  I  have  had  it  in  my  mind  for  some  time  past  — 
somehow  my  work  among  the  people  here  hasn't 
met  with  the  response  I  once  hoped  for. 
I  have  done  my  best  —  and  it  would  be  ungrate- 
ful to  say  that  I  had  failed  utterly  when  there  are 
always  the  few  who  are  pleased  when  I  drop  in. 
But  the  men  are  not  encouraging. 

Rutherford.     I  daresay  not. 

Dick.  I  have  done  my  best.  Looking  back  on 
my  three  years  here,  I  honestly  cannot  blame  my- 
self ;  and  yet  —  failure  is  not  the  less  bitter  on  that 
account. 

Rutherford  ]^almost  kindly'\.  Well  —  perhaps 
a  year  or  two  at  a  Theological  College  wasn't  the 
best  of  trainings  for  a  raw  hell  like  Grantley.  It 
always  beats  me  —  whenever  a  man  thinks  it's  his 


60  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

particular  line  to  deal  with  humanity  in  the  rough, 
he  always  goes  to  school  like  a  bit  of  a  lad  —  to 
find  out  how  to  do  it. 

Dick.     Ah !  you  don't  understand. 

Rutherford.  You  mean  I  don't  see  things  your 
way  —  well,  that's  not  worth  discussing.  [^He 
goes  back  to  his  writing.^ 

Dick.  I  have  sometimes  wondered  if  your  not 
seeing  things  my  way  has  had  anything  to  do  with 
my  lack  of  success  among  your  people.  For  they 
are  your  people. 

Rutherford.     What  d'ye  mean.? 

Dick  [^sincerelyl.  Not  only  the  lack  of  reli- 
gious example  on  your  part  —  even  some  kind  of 
Sunday  observance  would  have  helped  —  to  be 
more  in  touch  —  but  all  through  my  ministry  I 
have  been  conscious  of  your  silent  antagonism. 
Even  in  my  active  work  —  in  talking  to  the  men, 
in  visiting  their  wives,  in  everything  —  I  have  al- 
ways felt  that  dead  weight  against  me,  dragging 
me  down,  taking  the  heart  out  of  all  I  do  and  say, 
even  when  I  am  most  certain  that  I  am  right  to  do 
and  say  it.      \^He  ends  rather  breathlessly.^ 

Rutherford  \testily'\.  What  the  devil  have  you 
got  hold  of  now? 

Dick.  Perhaps  I  haven't  made  it  clear  what  I 
mean. 

Rutherford  [deliberately^.  I've  never  said  a 
word  against  you  or  for  you.  And  I've  never 
heard   a   word    against   you    or    for    you.     Now ! 


ACT  II  61 

.  .  .  As  for  what  you  call  your  work,  I  don't 
know  any  more  about  it  than  a  bairn,  and  I  haven't 
time  to  learn.  I  should  say  that  if  you  could  keep 
the  men  out  of  the  public  houses  and  hammer  a  lit- 
tle decency  into  the  women  it  might  be  a  good 
thing.     But  I'm  not  an  expert  in  your  line. 

Dick  [bold  in  his  conviction'].  Father  —  ex- 
cuse me,  but  sometimes  I  think  your  point  of  view 
is  perfectly  deplorable. 

Rutherford.  Indeed.  Frankly,  I  don't  realise 
the  importance  of  my  point  of  view  or  of  yours 
either.  I  got  my  work  to  do  in  the  world  —  for 
the  sake  o'  the  argument,  so  have  you  —  we  do  it 
or  we  don't  do  it.  But  what  we  think  about  it 
either  way,  doesn't  matter. 

Dick  [very  earnestly].     It  matters  to  God. 

Rutherford.  Does  it.?  —  Now  run  along  —  I'm 
busy. 

Dick.  This  Is  all  part  of  your  resentment  — 
your  natural  resentment  —  at  my  having  taken  up 
a  different  line  to  the  one  you  intended  for  me. 

Rutherford.  Resentment  —  not  a  bit.  Wear 
your  collar-stud  at  the  back  if  you  like,  it's  all  one 
to  me.  You  can't  make  a  silk  purse  out  of  a  sow's 
ear  —  you  were  no  good  for  my  purpose,  and 
there's  an  end.  For  the  matter  o'  that,  you  might 
just  as  well  never  ha'  been  born  —  except  that 
you  give  no  trouble  either  way.  .  .  .  Where's 
John  ? 

Dick.     I     don't    know.     His     candle     is     here. 


6a  RUTHERFORD  AND  BON 

I  am  still  absolutely  convinced  that  I 
chose  the  better  part. 

Rutherford.  Probably.  There  are  more  ways 
than  one  of  shirking  life,  and  religion's  one  of 
them.  If  you  want  my  blessing,  here  it  is.  As 
long  as  you  respect  my  name  and  remember  that  I 
made  a  gentleman  of  ye,  ye  can  go  to  the  devil  in 
your  own  way. 

Dick.  Then  I  have  your  consent  to  accept  St. 
Jude's  ? 

Rutherford  [writingl.  Aye.  Just  ring  the 
bell  before  you  go.  I  want  my  lamp.  \^Dick  does 
so,  depressed  and  disappointed.  On  his  way  to  his 
candle  he  hesitates.^ 

Dick.  By  the  way  —  I'm  forgetting  —  Mrs. 
Henderson  wants  to  see  you. 

Rutherford.     And  who's  Mrs.  Henderson.? 

Dick.     William's  mother. 

Rutherford.  William.?  .  .  .  The  chap 
who's  been  pilfering  my  money?  Oh,  that  mat- 
ter's settled. 

Dick.     Oh!     .     .     .     Yes. 

Rutherford.     Good  night.     Did  you  ring? 

Dick.  Yes.  I  rang.  Good  night.  [There  is 
a  silence,  broken  by  the  scratching  of  Rutherford's 
pen.  Dick  summons  up  his  courage  and  speaks 
again.']  I'm  afraid  I  told  Mrs.  Henderson  she 
might  call  to-night. 

Rutherford.     Did  ye  now.? 

Dick.     Yes. 


ACT  II  63 

Rutherford.  And  what  the  devil  did  ye  do  that 
for,  if  one  ma}'^  inquire? 

Dick.  She  is  one  of  my  parishioners  —  in  my 
district.      She  came  to  me  —  asked  my  help. 

Rutherford.  Told  you  the  usual  yam,  I  sup- 
pose. More  fool  you,  to  be  taken  in  by  it.  I 
can't  see  her. 

Did:  We  don't  know  that  it  isn't  true.  The 
boy  has  been  led  astray  by  bad  companions  to  bet 
and  gamble.  It's  a  regular  gang  —  George  Ham- 
mond's one,  Fade's  another. 

Rutherford.  I  know  them.  Two  of  the  worst 
characters  and  the  best  workers  we've  got. 

Dick.  However  that  may  be,  the  mother's  in 
great  grief,  and  I  promised  to  intercede  with  you 
to  give  her  son  another  chance. 

Rutherford.  Then  you'd  no  business  to  prom- 
ise anything  of  the  kind.  The  lad's  a  young  black- 
guard. Bless  my  soul  —  look  at  the  head  he's  got 
on  him !  As  bad  an  egg  as  you'll  find  in  all  your 
parish,  and  that's  saying  a  good  deal. 

Dick.     I'm     afraid    it    is  —  God    help     them. 

But [^  series  of  slow  heavy  knocks  on  the 

outer  door  are  heard,  ending  with  a  belated  single 
one.'l      I'm  afraid  that  is  Mrs.  Henderson. 

Rutherford  [going  an  with  his  writing].  Aye, 
it  sounds  like  her  hand.  Been  drowning  her  trou- 
ble, mebbee. 

Dick  [after  another  knock].     WeU.      She's  here. 


64  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

Rutherford.  You'd  better  go  and  tell  her  to  go 
away  again. 

Dick,  Yes.  [^He  makes  an  undecided  move  to- 
wards the  door;  stops.'l  The  woman  ought  to 
have  a  fair  hearing. 

Rutherford  [^losing  patience^.  Fair  hearing! 
She's  badgered  Martin  till  he's  had  to  turn  out, 
and  on  the  top  of  it  all  you  come  blundering  in 
with  your  talk  of  a  fair  hearing  —  [^Jw  gets  up  and 
swings  to  the  door,  pushing  Dick  aside'\.  Here 
—  let  be. 

Dick  [^speaking  'with  such  earnestness  that  Ruth- 
erford stops  to  look  at  him'\.  Father  —  one  mo- 
ment. .  .  .  Don't  you  think  —  don't  you 
think  it  might  be  better  to  be  friendly  with  her. 
To  avoid  unpleasantness?  And  gossip  after- 
wards   

Rutherford.  What?  God  help  you  for  a  fool, 
Richard.  One  would  think  I'd  nothing  to  do  but 
fash  myself  about  this  young  blackguard  and 
speak  soft  to  his  mother  —  \^he  goes  out  into  the 
hall  and  is  heard  opening  the  door]^.  Now,  INIrs. 
Henderson  —  you've  come  about  your  lad.  You've 
had  my  answer,  [il/r^.  Henderson  is  heard  speak- 
ing apparently  on  the  mat.'] 

Mrs.  Henderson.  Oh,  if  you  please,  sir  —  if 
you  could  just  see  your  way  to  sparin'  me  a  min- 
ute I'd  take  it  kindly,  that  I  would.  And  I  come 
all  the  way  from  home  on  me  two  feet  —  and  me  a 
poor  widder   woman.      \^She   drifts   imperceptibly 


ACT  II  65 

just  inside  the  room.  She  is  a  large  and  powerful 
woman  with  a  draggled  skirt  and  a  shawl  over  her 
head,  and  slie  is  slightly  drunk.  Rutherford  fol- 
lows her  in  arid  stands  hy  the  open  door,  holding  the 
handle.'] 

Rutherford.  Well,  then,  out  with  it.  What  ha' 
ye  got  to  say? 

Mrs.  Henderson.  It's  my  lad  Bill  as  has  been 
accused  o'  takin'  your  money 

Rutherford.     Ten  pounds. 

Mrs.  Henderson.     By  Mr.  Martin,  sir. 

Rutherford.     What  then? 

Mrs.  Henderson.  And  not  another  living  soul 
near  to  say  the  truth  of  it. 

Rutherford.  Martin's  my  man,  Mrs.  Hender- 
son. What  he  does,  he  does  under  my  orders. 
Besides,  Martin  and  your  son  both  say  he  took  it. 
They've  agreed  about  it. 

Mrs.  Henderson.  Aye,  when  he  was  scared  out 
of  his  life  he  owned  to  it.  I'm  not  denying  he 
owned  to  it 

Rutherford.  Oh,  that's  it,  is  it?  He  wants  to 
go  back  on  it?     Why  did  he  give  up  the  money? 

Mrs.  Henderson.  He  was  that  scared,  sir,  o' 
being  sent  to  the  gaol  and  losing  his  place  and  all, 
what  wi'  Mr.  Martin  speaking  that  harsh  to  him 
and  all,  and  him  a  bit  of  a  lad 

Rutherford.  I  see.  In  that  case  I  owe  him  ten 
pounds? 

Mrs.  Henderson.     Eh? 


66  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

Rutherford.  I've  took  ten  pounds  off  him, 
poor  lad,  all  his  honest  savings  mebbee.  Good 
night,  Mrs.  Henderson. 

Mrs.  Henderson.  Ah,  Mr.  Rutherford,  sir, 
don't  'ee  be  hard  on  us  —  don't  'ee  now.  We  all 
got  summat  to  be  overlooked  —  every  one  on  us 
when  ye  get  down  to  it  —  and  there's  not  a  family 
harder  working  nor  more  respected  in  Grantley. 
Mr.  Richard  here'll  speak  for  us. 

Dick.  I  ...  I  do  believe  they  are  sin- 
cerely trying  to  do  better. 

Rutherford.  Just  so  —  better  not  rake  up  by- 
gones. My  time's  short,  Mrs.  Henderson,  and 
you've  no  business  to  come  up  to  the  house  at  this 
time  o'  night,  as  you  know  well  enough. 

Mrs.  Henderson.  Aye,  sir,  begging  your  par- 
don. I'm  sure  I'd  be  the  last  to  intrude  on  you 
and  the  family  if  it  warn't  for 

Rutherford.  I  daresay.  What  did  Martin  say 
to  you  when  you  intruded  into  the  glass-house? 

Mrs.  Henderson.     What  did  he  say  to  me? 

Rutherford  [^im patiently  1.     Aye. 

Mrs.  Henderson  [fervently'].  Far  be  it  from 
me  to  repeat  what  he  did  say.  God  forbid  that  I 
should  dirty  my  mouth  wi'  the  words  that  man 
turned  on  me!  before  the  men  too,  and  half  of  'em 
wi'  their  shirts  off  and  me  a  decent  woman.  [F?o- 
lently.']  "  Hawd  yer  whist,"  I  says  to  'n. 
"  Hawd  yer  whist  for  a  shameless " 

Rutherford.     That'll     do,     that'll     do  —  that's 


ACT  II  6T 

enough.  You  can  take  what  Martin  said  from 
me.  The  matter's  ended.  [Dick  makes  an  ap- 
pealing vioveTnent.'\  Five  years  ago  your  son  was 
caught  steahng  coppers  out  o'  the  men's  coats  — 
men  poorer  than  himself.  Don't  forget  that.  I 
knew  about  it  well  enough.  I  gave  him  another 
chance  because  he  was  a  young  'un,  and  because 
you  ought  to  ha'  taught  him  better. 

Mrs.  Henderson.  Me?  Taught  him  better! 
That  I  should  ever  hear  the  like ! 

Rutherford.  I  gave  him  another  chance.  He 
made  the  most  of  it  by  robbing  me  the  first  time 
he  thought  he  was  safe  not  to  be  caught.  Every 
man's  got  a  right  to  go  to  the  devil  in  his  own  way, 
as  I've  just  been  telling  Mr.  Richard  here,  and 
your  son  Bill's  old  enough  to  choose  his.  I  don't 
quarrel  with  him  for  that.  But  lads  that  get  their 
fingers  in  my  till  are  no  use  to  me.  And  there's 
an  end! 

Dick.  Father!  If  you  talk  to  her  like 
this 

Rutherford.  It's  you  that's  brought  her  to  hear 
me  —  you  must  take  the  consequences. 

Dick.  No  one  is  wholly  bad  —  we  have  no 
right  to  say  the  lad  is  past  hope,  to  condemn  him 
utterly. 

Mrs.  Henderson.  Thank  'ee  kindly,  Mr.  Rich- 
ard, sir  —  it's  gospel  truth  every  word  of  it.  My 
son's  as  good  a  son  as  ever  a  lone  woman  had, 
but  he's  the  spittin'  image  of  his  father,  that  easily 


68  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

led.  And  now  to  have  liim  go  wrong  and  all 
through  keeping  bad  company  and  betting  on  the 
racing  —  just  as  he  might  ha'  laid  a  bit  on  you, 
sir,  in  your  young  days  and  won  his  money  too, 
sir,  along  o'  your  being  sartain  sure  to  win. 

Rutherford.  Well,  I  would  have  done  my  best 
to  get  him  his  money.  But  if  I'd  lost  he'd  ha' 
had  to  take  his  beating  and  pay  up  like  a  man  and 
no  whining  about  it.  You  take  an  interest  in  run- 
ning? 

Mrs.  Henderson  [fervently'].  Aye,  sir,  and  al- 
ways has  done  ever  since  I  was  a  bit  lass.  And 
many's  the  Saturday  me  and  my  old  man's  gone 
down  to  the  ground  to  see  you  run. 

Rutherford.  You  don't  happen  to  have  heard 
who's  won  the  quarter-of-a-mile  at  B  rough  ton,  do 
you? 

Dick.     Father ! 

Mrs.  Henderson.  I  did  hear  as  It  was  Dawson, 
sir,  as  I  was  passing. 

Rutherford.  Ah.  Shepherd  was  overtrained. 
What  time  did  he  do  —  Dawson  ? 

Mrs.  Henderson.     I  don't  know,  sir. 

Rutherford.  I  made  him  a  shade  worse  than 
six  under  at  his  trial.  Shepherd  should  have 
beaten  that. 

Dick.  Father,  please !  Do  let  us  talk  this  mat- 
ter out  seriously. 

Rutherford.     Seriously?     What  more? 

Dick.     You  see,  it  is  as  I  said.     I  am  sure  Mrs. 


ACT  II  69 

Henderson  will  answer  for  her  son's  good  conduct 
if  you  will  consent  to  take  him  back  —  won't  you, 
Mrs.  Henderson?  Just  this  once.  Your  kindness 
may  make  all  the  difference,  reform  him  altogether, 
who  knows.?  He's  had  his  lesson  and  I  hate  to 
preach,  but  —  there  is  such  a  thing  as  repentance. 

Rutherford  [Jr%].  That's  all  right.  You 
say  what  you  think!  And  don't  misunderstand 
me.  I've  no  objection  to  Bill  Henderson  repent- 
ing, but  I  won't  have  him  doing  it  in  my  Works, 
d'ye  see.?  There's  nothing  spreads  so  quick  as  a 
nice  soft  feeling  hke  that,  and  —  who  knows  — 
we  might  have  half-a-dozen  other  young  black- 
legs at  the  same  game.?  Now,  Mrs.  Henderson,  go 
home  like  a  sensible  woman  and  send  your  lad  away 
from  Grantley.  He'll  soon  find  his  feet  if  he's  a 
mind  to  go  straight.  Keep  him  clear  o'  the  pit 
towns  —  put  him  on  a  farm  somewhere,  where 
there  aren't  so  many  drinks  going.  And  if  I  were 
you  [looking  at  her'\,  why  not  go  with  him  your- 
self.? 

Mrs.  Henderson  Rafter  a  pause,  suddenly  trucu- 
lent]. Me.?  Me  leave  Grantley?  Me  go  to  a 
place  where  I'm  not  respected  and  not  a  friend  to 
speak  for  me.?  In  Grantley  I  was  born  and  in 
Grantley  I'll  live,  like  yourself.  And  beggin'  your 
pardon,  though  you  are  the  master,  I'll  joost  take 
the  liberty  o'  choosin'  my  own  way. 

Rutherford.  Quite  right  —  quite  right.  When 
you've  lived  and  had  your  bairns  and  got  drunk 


70  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

in  a  place  you're  apt  to  get  attached  to  it.  I'm 
that  way  myself.  But  it's  just  as  well  to  change 
your  drinks  once  in  a  while.  It's  only  a  friendly 
word  of  advice  I'm  giving  you.  Take  it  or 
leave  it. 

Mrs.  Henderson  \hridlmg'\.  And  so  I  will  take 
it  or  leave  it.     Much  obliged  to  'ee. 

Rutherford.  And  now  go  home,  like  a  good 
woman. 

Mrs.  Henderson  [tossing  her  head  with  an  un- 
steady curtsey'].  And  so  I  will,  and  a  lot  I  got  for 
my  trouble  —  thank  'ee  for  nothing. 

Rutherford.  Thank  me  for  not  prosecuting 
your  son,  as  I  might  ha'  done. 

Mrs.  Henderson  [ivorhlng  herself  up].  Prose- 
cute !  Prosecute  my  son !  And  why  didn't  ye  do 
it.?  Ye  darena' — that's  why.  You're  feared  o' 
folks  talkin' —  o'  things  said  i'  the  court.  And 
ye  took  and  hided  him  and  him  a  bit  of  a  lad,  and 
not  a  decent  woman  in  Grantley  but's  crying 
shame  on  ye! 

Rutherford  \_good-humouredly'].  Now,  Rich- 
ard, this  is  where  you  come  in.  You  brought  her 
here. 

Mrs.  Henderson  {yery  shrilV].  You  let  him  off 
easy,  did  you.-^  You  give  him  another  chance,  did 
you.f^  My  lad  could  ha'  had  you  up  for  assault 
—  that's  what  he'd  ha'  done  if  he'd  had  a  mind, 
and  quite  right  too.  It's  him  that's  let  you  off, 
mind  that.     And  you  may  thank  your  devil's  luck 


ACT  II  71 

you're  not  up  afore  the  magistrate  this  next  Assizes 
that  ever  is,  and  printed  in  the  paper  for  all  the 
countryside  to  mock  at. 

Rutherford.  Go  on,  Richard.  She's  your 
parishioner.     Turn  her  out. 

Mrs.  Henderson.  Him  turn  me  out?  A  bit  of 
a  preaching  bairn  no  stronger  nor  a  linty  —  him 
with  his  good  noos  and  his  sojers-o'-Christ-arise! 
Whee  was  it  up  and  ran  away  from  old  Lizzie  Win- 
ter like  a  dawg  wi'  a  kettle  tied  to  his  tail? 

Rutherford.  We'll  have  all  your  secrets  In  a 
minute  —  [quktly  without  turning'].  Are  you  go- 
ing, Mrs.  Henderson? 

Mrs.  Henderson.  I'll  go  when  It  pleases  me, 
and  not  afore  I 

Rutherford.     Are   you   going [He   gets 

up  and  moves  towards  her  vn  a  threatening  man- 
ner.1^ 

Mrs.  Henderson  [retreatingl.  Lay  hands  on 
me!  Lay  hands  on  a  helpless  woman!  I'll  lam 
ye !  I'll  larn  ye  to  come  on  me  wi'  yer  high  ways. 
Folks  shall  hear  tell  on  it,  that  they  shall,  and  a  bit 
more  besides.  I'll  larn  ye,  sure  as  I'm  a  living 
creature.  .  .  .  I'll  set  the  police  on  ye,  as 
sure  as  I'm  a  living  woman.     .     .     . 

Rutherford  [to  Dick,  contemptuously].  Hark 
to  that  —  Hark  to  It. 

Mrs.  Henderson.  You  think  yourself  so  grand 
wl'  your  big  hoose,  and  your  high  ways.  And 
your  grandfather  a  potman  like  my  own.     You 


72  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

wi'  your  son  that's  the  laughing  stock  o'  the  parish, 
and  your  daughter  that  goes  wi'  a  working  man 
ahint  your  back !  And  so  good  night  to  'ee.  [^The 
outer  door  bangs  violently.  There  is  a  pause. 
Dick  speaks  in  a  voice  scarcely  audible.^ 

Dick.     What     was     that?     .     .     .     She     said 
something  —  about  Janet. 

Rutherford  [impatiently'].     Good  God,  man  — 
don't  stand  staring  there  as  if  the  house  had  fallen. 

Dick  [shaking].     I  told  you  to  be  careful  —  I 
warned  you  • —  I  knew  how  it  would  be. 

Rutherford.     Warned  me?     You're  fool  enough 
to  listen  to  what  a  drunken  drab  like  that  says ! 

Dick.     She's  not  the  only  one 

Rutherford     [looking     at     him].     What     d'ye 
mean?     What's  that? 

Dick.     People  are  talking.    I've  —  heard  things. 
.     It    isn't    true  —  it    can't    be  —  it's    too 
dreadful. 

Rutherford.     Heard     things  —  what     ha'     ye 
heard? 

Dick.     It  isn't  true. 

Rutherford.     Out  with  it. 

Dick.     Lizzie    Winter    that    time  —  called    out 
something.     I  took  no  notice,  of  course. 
Three  nights  ago  as  I  was  coming  home  —  past  a 
public   house  —  the   men  were   talking.     I   heard 
something  then. 

Rutherford.     What  was  It  you  heard? 

Dick.     There  was  his  name,  and  Janet's.     Then 


ACT  II  73 

one  of  them  —  George  Hammond,  I  think  It  was  — 
said  something  about  having  seen  him  on  the  road 
to  the  Tarn  late  one  evening  with  a  woman  with  a 
shawl  over  her  head  —  IMartin ! 

Rutherford.     Martin ! 

Dick  [trying  to  reassure  himself'\.  It's  ex- 
tremely unlikely  that  there  is  any  truth  in  it  at 
all.  Why,  he's  been  about  ever  since  we  were  chil- 
dren. A  servant,  really.  No  one's  ever  thought 
of  the  possibility  of  such  a  thing.  They  will  gos- 
sip, and  one  thing  leads  to  another.  It's  easy  to 
put  two  and  two  together  and  make  five  of  them. 
That's  all  it  is,  we'll  find.  Why,  even  I  can  re- 
call things  I  barely  noticed  at  the  time  —  things 
that  might  point  to  its  being  true  —  if  it  weren't 
so  utterly  impossible. 

Rutherford  [hoarselij'].  Three  nights  gone. 
In  this  very  room 

Dick.  What.?  \_running  on  againl.  They've 
seen  some  one  like  Janet,  and  started  the  talk.  It 
would  be  enough. 

Rutherford  ^speaking  to  himself  1.  Under  my 
roof 

Dick.  After  dark  on  the  road  with  a  shawl  — 
all  women  would  look  exactly  alike.  .  .  .  It's 
a  pity  he's  taken  the  Tarn  Cottage. 

Rutherford  [listening  again'\.     Eh? 

Dick.  I  mean  it's  a  pity  it's  happened  just 
now. 

Rutherford.     A  good  mile  from  tlie  Works. 


74  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

Dick.     You  can't  see  it  from  the  village. 

Rutherford.  A  good  mile  to  walk,  morn  and 
night. 

Dick.     No  one  goes  there. 

Rutherford.  A  lone  place  —  a  secret,  he  says 
to  himself.  Martin  .  .  .  \^He  stands  hy  the 
table,  his  shoulders  stooped,  his  face  suddenly  old. 
Dick  makes  an  involuntary  movement  towards 
himi.l^ 

Dick.  Father!  Don't  take  it  like  that,  for 
heaven's  sake  —  don't  look  so  broken. 

Rutherford.  Who's  broken  .  .  .  \lie  makes 
a  sign  to  Dick  not  to  come  near^.  Him  to  go 
against  me.  You're  only  a  lad  —  you  don't  know. 
You  don't  know.  [^John  comes  into  the  room, 
evidently  on  his  iscay  to  hed.~\ 

John  \iMy^.  Hullo.  {^Stoys  short,  looking 
from  one  to  the  other. '\     What's  the  matter? 

Rutherford  {turning  on  him.^  And  what  the 
devil  do  you  want? 

John.  Want  ?  —  nothing  ...  I  thought 
you  were  talking  about  me,  that's  all. 

Rutherford.  About  you,  damn  you  —  go  to 
bed,  the  pair  o'  ye. 

Dick.     Father 

Rutherford.  Go  to  bed.  There's  men's  work 
to  be  done  here  —  you're  best  out  o'  the  way  — 
\he  goes  to  his  desk  and  speaks  dozen  the  tube']. 
Hulloh  there  —  Hulloh  ! 

Dick.     Wouldn't   it  be   better   to   wait   to   talk 


ACT  II  75 

things  over  ?     Here's  John  —  j^ou  may  be  able  to 
settle  something  —  come  to  some  arrangement. 

Rutherford.  Who's  that?  Gray  —  Has  Mar- 
tin gone  home?  Martin!  Tell  him  to  come 
across  at  once  —  I  want  him.     Aye  —  to  the  house 

—  where  else?     Have  you  got  it?     Tell  him  at 
once. 

John  \_suspicious'\.  I  rather  want  a  word  with 
Martin  myself.     I  think  I'll  stay. 

Rutherford.     You'll  do  as  you're  bid. 

John.  What  do  you  want  Martin  for  at  this 
time  of  night? 

Rutherford.     That's  my  business. 

John.     About  my  metal 

Rutherford.  Your  metal!  Wliat  the  devil's 
your  metal  got  to  do  with  it?      [Breaks  off.] 

John  ^excited].  Martin's  got  it.  You  know 
that.     You're  sending  for  him.     Martin's  honest 

—  he  won't  tell  you. 

Dick.  Here's  Janet.  [Janet  has  come  in  in 
answer  to  the  bell  and  stands  by  the  door  sullen  and 
indifferent,  waiting  for  orders.] 

Janet.  Susan's  gone  to  bed  —  [as  the  silence 
continues  she  looks  round].     The  bell  rang. 

Dick  [looking  at  Rutherford'] .  Some  time  ago. 
The  lamp  —  father  wanted  his  lamp.  [She  goes 
out.] 

John  [rapidly].  It's  no  use  going  on  like  this, 
settling  nothing  either  way.  Sooner  or  later  we've 
got  to  come  to  an  understanding.     .     .     .     [Dick 


76  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

makes  a  movement  to  stop  him.^  Oh,  shut  up, 
Dick!  \^He  breaks  off  at  a  look  from  Ruther- 
ford. ] 

Rutherford.  I  want  to  have  it  clear.  You 
heard  what  I  said,  three  days  past? 

John.     Yes,  of  course. 

Rutherford.     You  still  ask  your  price? 

John.  I  told  you  —  the  thing's  mine  —  I 
made  it. 

Rutherford  \_to  John'\.  You've  looked  at  it  — 
fair  and  honest? 

Dick.  Oh,  what  is  the  use  of  talking  like  this 
now  ?  Father !  you  surely  must  see  —  under  the 
circumstances  —  it  isn't  right  —  it  isn't  decent. 

John.  It's  perfectly  fair  and  just  what  I  ask. 
It  benefits  us  both,  the  way  I  want  it.  You've 
made  your  bit.  Rutherfords'  has  served  its  pur- 
pose —  and  it's  coming  to  an  end  —  only  you 
don't  see  it,  Guv'nor.  Oh,  I  know  you're  fond  of 
the  old  place  and  all  that  —  it's  only  natural  — 
but  you  can't  live  for  ever  —  and  I'm  all  right  — 
if  I  get  my  price. 

Rutherford.  So  much  down  for  yourself  — 
and  the  devil  take  Rutherfords'. 

John.     You  put  it  that  way 

Rutherford.     Yes  or  no? 

John.  Well  —  yes.  [J  knock  is  heard  at  the 
outer  door.'] 

Dick.     That's  Martin,  father 

John.     I'll  stay  and  see  him  —  I  may  as  well. 


ACT  II  7T 

Rutherford.  To-morrow  —  to-morrow  I'll  set- 
tle wi*  ye.  [^John  looks  at  him  in  amazement  — 
Dick  makes  a  sign  to  him  to  come  away  —  after  a 
moment  he  does  50.] 

John  [turning  as  he  reaches  the  door^. 
Thanks,  Guv'nor  —  I  thought  you'd  come  to  see 
things  my  way.      [They  go  out.^ 

Rutherford.  Come  in.  [Martin  comes  in, 
cleaning  his  boots  carefully  on  the  mat  —  shuts 
the  door  after  him  and  stands  cap  in  hand.  Ruth- 
erford sits  sunk  in  his  chair,  his  hands  gripping 
the  arms.l 

Martin.  I  came  up  as  soon  as  I  could  get  away. 
[Pause.'\ 

Rutherford  [as  if  his  lips  were  stiff '\.  You've 
stayed  late. 

Martin.  One  o'  the  pots  In  Number  Three  Fur- 
nace ran  down,  and  I  had  to  stay  and  see  her 
under  way. 

Rutherford.  Sit  down.  .  .  .  Help  your- 
self. 

Martin.  Thank  'ee,  sir.  [He  comes  to  the 
table  and  pours  out  some  whisky,  then  sits  with 
his  glass  resting  on  his  knee.^  Winter's  setting 
in  early. 

Rutherford.     Ay 

Martin.  There's  a  heavy  frost.  The  ground 
was  hardening  as  I  came  along.  .  .  .  They 
do  say  as  Rayner's  '11  be  working  again  afore  the 
week's  out. 


78  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

Rutherford.     Given  in  —  the  men? 

Martin.  Ay  —  the  bad  weather  '11  have  helped 
it.  Given  a  fine  spell  the  men  'ud  ha'  hung  on  a 
while  longer  —  but  the  cold  makes  'em  think  o'  the 
winter  —  turns  the  women  and  bairns  agin  them. 

Rutherford.     Ah ! 

Martin.  I  thought  you'd  like  to  hear  the  coal 
'ud  be  coming  in  all  right,  so  I  just  went  over  to 
have  a  word  wi'  White  the  Agent  this  forenoon. 
^He  drinks,  then  as  the  silence  continues,  looks 
intently  at  Rutherford.'\  You  sent  for  me.'^ 
[Janet  ccmies  in  carrying  a  reading-lamp.  She 
halts  for  a  moment  on  seeing  Martin.  He  gets  up 
awkwardly. '\ 

Martin  [touching  his  forelock'\.     Evenin'. 

Janet.  Good  evening.  [She  sets  the  lamp  on 
the  desk.  Rutherford  remains  in  the  same  posir 
tion  till  she  goes  out,  closing  the  door.  There  is 
a  moment's  silence,  then  Martin  straightens  him- 
self, and  they  look  at  each  other. ^ 

Martin  [hoarsely'].  You're  wanting  summat  wi' 
me? 

Rutherford.  I  want  the  receipt  of  Mr.  John's 
metal. 

Martin  [between  amazement  and  relief].     Eh? 

Rutherford.     You've  got  it. 

Martin.     Ay 

Rutherford.     Then  give  it  me. 

Martin.     I  cannot  do  that,  sir. 

Rutherford.     What  d'  ye  mean? 


ACT  II  79 

Martin.  It's  Mr.  John's  own  —  what  belongs 
to  him  —  I  canna  do  it. 

Rutherford.  On  your  high  horse,  eh,  Martin? 
You  can't  do  a  dirty  trick  —  you  can't,  eh  ? 

Martin.  A  dirty  trick!  Ye'll  never  be  asking 
it  of  me  —  you  never  will 

Rutherford.  I  am  asking  it  of  ye.  We've 
worked  together  five  and  twenty  j^ears,  master  and 
man.  You  know  me.  You  know  what  there  is  '11 
stop  me  when  I  once  make  up  my  mind.  I'm  go- 
ing to  have  this  metal,  d'  ye  understand.  Whether 
Mr.  John  gives  it  me  or  I  take  it,  I'm  going  to 
have  it. 

Martin.  It's  Mr.  John's  own ;  if  it's  ever  youm, 
he  must  give  it  to  ye  himself.  It's  not  for  me 
to  do  it.  He's  found  it,  and  it's  his  to  do  what 
he  likes  wi'.  For  me  to  go  behind  his  back  —  I 
canna  do  it.  {They  look  at  each  other  —  then 
Rutherford  gets  out  of  his  chair  and  begins  to 
pace  up  and  down  with  his  hands  behind  him.  He 
speaks  deliberately,  with  clumsy  gestures  and  an 
air  of  driving  straight  to  a  goal.^ 

Rutherford.  Sit  down.  .  .  .  Look  how  we 
stand.  We've  seven  years  losing  behind  us,  slow 
and  sure.  We've  got  the  Bank  that's  poking  its 
nose  into  this  and  that,  putting  a  stop  to  every- 
thing that  might  put  us  on  our  legs  again  — 
because  o'  the  risk.  .  .  .  Rutherfords'  is  go- 
ing down  —  down  —  I  got  to  pull  her  up  some- 
how.    There's  one  way  out.     If  I  can  show  the 


80  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

directors  in  plain  working  that  I  can  cover  the 
losses  on  the  first  year  and  make  a  profit  on  the  sec- 
ond, I've  got  'em  for  good  and  all. 

Martvn.  That's  so  —  and  Mr.  John  '11  see  it, 
and  ye'll  come  to  terms 

Rutherford.  Mr.  John's  a  fool.  My  son's  a 
fool  —  I  don't  say  it  in  anger.  He's  a  fool  be- 
cause his  mother  made  him  one,  bringing  him  up 
secret  wi'  books  o'  poetry  and  such  like  trash  — 
and  when  he'd  grown  a  man  and  the  time  was  come 
for  me  to  take  notice  of  him,  he'd  turned  agin 
me 

Martin.  He'll  come  roond  —  he's  but  a  bit  lad 
yet 

Rutherford.  Turned  agin  me  —  agin  me  and 
all  I  done  for  him  —  all  I  worked  to  build  up.  He 
thinks  it  mighty  clever  to  go  working  behind  my 
back  —  the  minute  he  gets  the  chance  he's  up  on  the 
hearthrug  dictating  his  terms  to  me.  He  knows 
well  enough  I've  counted  on  his  coming  after  me. 
He's  all  I  got  since  Richard  went  his  ways  —  he's 
got  me  there.  .  .  .  He  wants  his  price,  he 
says  —  his  price  for  mucking  around  with  a  bit 
of  a  muffle  furnace  in  his  play-hours  —  that's  what 
it  comes  to. 

Martin.  Ay  —  but  he's  happened  on  a  thing 
worth  a  bit. 

Rutherford.  Luck !  Luck !  What's  he  done 
for  it?  How  long  has  he  worked  for  it  —  tell  me 
that  —  an  hour  here  and  a  bit  there  —  and  he's 


ACT  II  81 

got  it!  I've  slaved  my  life  long,  and  what  have 
I  got  for  it?  Toil  and  weariness.  That's  what  I 
got  —  bad  luck  on  bad  luck  battering  on  me  — 
seven  years  of  it.  And  the  worst  bit  I've  had  yet 
is  that  when  it  turns  it's  put  into  my  son's  hands 
to  give  me  or  not,  if  you  please,  as  if  he  was  a 
lord. 

Martin.  He'll  come  roond  —  lads  has  their  no- 
tions —  we  all  want  to  have  things  for  ourselves 
when  we're  young,  all  on  us 

Rutherford.  Want  —  want  —  lad's  talk!  What 
business  has  he  to  want  when  there's  Rutherfords' 
going  to  the  dogs? 

Martin.  That  canna  be,  it  canna  —  he'll  have 
to  see  different. 

Rutherford.     He  won't  see  different. 

Martin.     He'll  learn. 

Rutherford.  When  it's  too  late.  Look  here, 
Martin,  we  can't  go  on  —  you  know  that  as  well 
as  I  do  —  leastways  you've  suspected  it.  Ten 
years  more  as  things  are  '11  see  us  out.  Done  with ! 
Mr.  John's  made  this  metal  —  a  thing,  I  take  your 
word  for  it,  that's  worth  a  fortune.  And  we're 
going  to  sit  by  and  watch  him  fooling  it  away  — 
selling  it  for  a  song  to  Miles  or  Jarvis,  that  we 
could  break  to-morrow  if  we  had  half  a  chance.. 
And  they'll  make  on  it,  make  on  it  —  while  Ruther- 
fords' '11  grub  on  as  we've  been  grubbing  for  the 
last  seven  years.  I'm  speaking  plain  now  —  I'm 
saying  what  I  wouldn't  say  to  another  living  man. 


82  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

We  can't  go  on.  You've  been  with  me  through  it 
all.  You've  seen  me  do  it.  You've  seen  the  drag 
and  the  struggle  of  it  —  the  days  when  I've  nigh 
thrown  up  the  sponge  for  very  weariness  —  the 
bit  o'  brightness  that  made  me  go  on  —  the  times 
when  I've  stood  up  to  the  Board,  sick  in  the  heart 
of  me,  with  nothing  but  my  will  to  turn  'em  this 
way  or  that.  And  at  the  end  of  it  —  I  come  up 
against  this  —  a  bit  o'  foolishness  —  just  foolish- 
ness —  and  all  that  I  done  '11  break  on  that  —  just 
that. 

Martin.     Nay  —  nay 

Rutherford.  I'm  getting  old  they  say  —  old  — 
there's  new  ways  in  the  trade  they  say.  And  in 
their  hearts  they  see  me  out  of  it  —  out  o'  the 
place  I  built  afore  they  learnt  their  letters  many  of 


'em 


Martin.     That  '11  never  be. 

Rutherford.  Why  not  ?  —  when  you've  got  but 
to  put  your  hand  in  your  pocket  to  save  the  place 
and  you  don't  do  it.  You're  with  them  —  you're 
with  the  money-grubbing  little  souls  that  can't  see 
beyond  the  next  shilling  they  put  in  their  pockets, 
that's  content  to  wring  the  old  place  dry,  then 
leave  it  to  the  rats  —  you're  with  a  half-broke 
puppy  like  Mr.  John  that  wants  to  grab  his  bit  for 
himself  and  clear  out.  Twenty-five  years 
and  you  go  snivelling  about  what  Mr.  John  thinl<s 
of  yc  —  what's  right  for  you  to  do.  Everybody 
for  himself  —  his  pocket  or  his  soul,  it's  all  one. 


ACT  II  83 

And  Rutherfords'  loses  her  chance  through  the  lot 
o'  ye.     Blmd  fools! 

Martin.  You  blame  me  —  you  put  me  i'  the 
wrong.  It's  like  as  if  I'd  have  to  watch  the  old 
place  going  down  year  by  year,  and  have  it  on  my 
mind  that  I  might  ha'  saved  her.  But  Mr.  John's 
got  his  rights. 

Rutherford.  You  think  I'm  getting  this  metal 
for  myself  against  Mr.  John? 

Martin.     I'm  loth  to  say  it. 

Rutherford.     Answer  me 

Martin.     Mr.  John  '11  see  it  that  way. 

Rutherford.  Stealing  like,  out  o'  his  pocket 
into  mine.  When  men  steal,  Martin,  they  do  it  to 
gain  something.  If  I  steal  this,  what  '11  I  gain  by 
it.?  If  I  make  money,  what  '11  I  buy  with  it? 
Pleasure  maybe?  Children  to  come  after  me  — 
glad  o'  what  I  done  ?  Tell  me  anything  in  the  wide 
world  that  'd  bring  me  joy,  and  I'll  swear  to  you 
never  to  touch  it. 

Martin.  If  you  think  what  you're  saying  it's 
a  weary  life  you  got  to  face. 

Rutherford.  If  you  give  it  to  me,  what'll  you 
gain  by  it?  Not  a  farthing  shall  you  ever  have 
from  me  —  no  more  than  I  get  myself. 

Martin.     And  what'll  Mr.  John  get  for  it? 

Rutherford.  Rutherfords' — when  I'm  gone. 
[After  a  silence. '\  He'll  thank  you  in  ten  years 
—  he'll  come  to  laugh  at  himself  —  him  and  his 
price.     He'll  see  the  Big  Thing  one  day  mebbee, 


84  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

like  what  I've  done.  He'll  see  that  it  was  no  more 
his  to  keep  than  'twas  yours  to  give  nor  mine  to 
take.  .  .  .  It's  Rutherfords'.  .  .  .  Will 
you  give  it  me? 

Martin  [facing  him'].  If  I  thought  that  we'd 
make  a  farthing  out  of  it,  either  on  us 

Rutherford.  Will  ye  give  it  me ?  [Mar- 
tin stands  looking  at  him,  then  slowly  begins  to 
feel  in  his  'pockets.] 

Rutherford.     Got  it  —  on  you  ? 

Martin  [taking  out  a  pocket-hook].  He'll 
never  f orgi'  me,  Mr.  John  won't  —  never  i'  this 
world.  ...  It  should  be  somewheres.  He'll 
turn  agin  me  —  it'll  be  as  if  I  stole  it. 

Rutherford.     Got  it.? 

Martin.  Na,  I  mun'  ha'  left  it  up  hame.  Ay, 
I  call  to  mind  now  —  I  locked  it  away  to  keep  it 
safe. 

Rutherford.  Can  ye  no'  remember  it?  Think, 
man  —  think ! 

Martin.  Nay,  I  canna  be  sure.  I  canna  call 
the  quantities  to  mind. 

Rutherford  [violently].  Think  —  think  —  you 
must  know! 

Martin  [wondermgly],  I  can  give  it  'ee  first 
thing  i'  the  morning. 

Rutherford.  I  want  it  to-night.  .  .  .  No, 
no  —  leave  it  —  you  might  get  it  wrong  —  better 
make  sure  —  bring  it  up  in  the  morning.  Good 
night   to   'ee  —  good   night.     And   remember  —  I 


ACT  II  85 

take  your  word  to  bring  it  —  no  going  back,  mind 
ye 

Martin.  Nay,  nay.  [Turning  to  go.'\  I 
doubt  if  Mr.  John  '11  ever  see  it  in  the  way  you  do. 
If  you  could  mebbee  explain  a  bit  when  he  hears  tell 
of  it  —  put  in  a  word  for  me  belike 

Rutherford.     I'm  to  bed. 

Martin.     I  take  shame  to  be  doing  it  now. 

Rutherford.  Off  wi'  ye  —  off  wi'  ye  —  wi' 
your  conscience  so  delicate  and  tender.  Keep  your 
hands  clean,  or  don't  let  any  one  see  them  dirty  ■ — 
it'll  do  as  well. 

Martin.  He  worked  it  out  along  o'  me.  Every 
time  it  changed  he  come  running  to  show  me  like 
a  bairn  wi'  a  new  toy. 

Rutherford.     It's  for  Rutherfords'.     .     .     . 

Martin.  Ay,  for  Eutherfords' — Good  night, 
sir.  [He  goes  out.  After  a  pause,  Janet  comes 
in  to  put  things  straight  for  the  night.  She  goes 
into  the  hall  and  is  heard  putting  the  chain  on  the 
outer  door  —  comes  hack,  locking  the  inner  door 
—  then  takes  the  whisky  decanter  from  the  tray 
and  locks  it  in  the  sideboard,  laying  the  key  on  the 
desk.  Rutherford  stands  on  the  hearthrug.  As 
she  takes  up  the  tray  he  speaks.'] 

Rutherford.  How  long  has  this  been  going  on 
atween  you  and  Martin?  [She  puts  the  tray  down 
and  stands  staring  at  him  with  a  white  face.] 

Jan£t.     How  long? 

Rutherford.     Answer  me. 


86  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

Janet.  September  about  —  when  Mary  and 
Tony  came.  [^TJiere  is  a  long  silence.  When  it 
becomes  unbearable  she  speaks  again.~\  What  are 
you  going  to  do?  \^He  maizes  no  answer.']  You 
must  tell  me  what  you're  going  to  do  ? 

Rutherford.     Keep  my  hands  off  ye. 

Janet.     You've  had  him  here. 

Rutherford.     That's  my  business. 

Janet  [^speaking  in  a  low  voice  as  if  she  were 
repeating  a  lesson^.  It  wasn't  his  fault.  It 
was  me.  He  didn't  come  after  me.  I  went  after 
him. 

Rutherford.     Feel  —  proud  o'  yourself? 

Janet.  You  can't  punish  him  for  what  isn't 
his  fault.  If  you've  got  to  punish  any  one,  it's 
me. 

Rutherford.     How  far's  it  gone? 

Janet  \_after  a  pause].  Right  at  first  —  I  made 
up  my  mind  that  if  you  ever  found  out,  I'd  go 
right  away,  to  put  things  straight.  [She  goes  on 
presently  in  the  same  toneless  voice,]  He  wanted 
to  tell  you  at  the  first.  But  I  knew  it  would  be  no 
use.  And  once  we'd  spoken  —  every  time  was  just 
a  little  more.  So  we  let  it  slide.  ...  It  was 
I  said  not  to  tell  you, 

Rutherford,  Martin  .  .  .  that  I  trusted 
as  I  trust  myself. 

Janet.     I'll  give  him  up. 

Rutherford.  You  can't  give  him  back  to  me. 
He  was  a  straight  man.     What's  the  good  of  him 


ACT  II  87 

now?     You've  dragged  the  man's  heart  out  of  him 
with  your  damned  woman's  ways.      [^She  looks  at 

Janet.  You  haven't  turned  him  away  —  you 
couldn't  do  that ! 

Rutherford.     That's  my  business. 

Janet.  You  couldn't  do  that  —  not  Mar- 
tin. 

Rutherford.  Leave  it  —  leave  it.  .  .  .  Mar- 
tin's my  servant,  that  I  pay  wages  to.  I  made 
a  name  for  my  children  —  a  name  respected  in 
all  the  countryside  —  and  you  go  with  a  working- 
man.  .  .  .  To-morrow  you  leave  my  house. 
D'  ye  understand?  I'll  have  no  light  ways  under 
my  roof.  No  one  shall  say  I  winked  at  it.  You 
can  bide  the  night.  To-morrow  when  I  come  in 
I'm  to  find  ye  gone.  .  ,  .  Your  name  shan't 
be  spoke  in  my  house     .     .     .     never  again. 

Janet.  Yes.  [^She  stands  looking  down  at  the 
table,  then  sloxvly  moves  to  go,  her  feet  dragging 
—  stops  for  a  moment  and  says  in  a  final  tone,  al- 
most with  a  sigh  of  relief ."l  Then  there  '11  be  no 
need  for  anybody  to  know  it  was  Martin 

Rutherford.  No  need  to  know.  Lord,  you 
drive  me  crazy!  With  all  Grantley  telling  the 
story  —  my  name  in  every  public-house. 

Janet.  "When  I'm  gone.  {^Looking  up.'\ 
What  did  you  say? 

Rutherford.  It's  all  over  the  place  by  now. 
Richard's  heard  it  —  your  own  brother.     .     .     . 


88  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

You've  been  running  out  o'  night,  I  suppose. 
Somebody's  seen. 

Janet.     What's  Dick  heard? 

Rutherford.  What  men  say  about  women  like 
you.     They  got  a  word. 

Janet.     The  men.     .     .     .     O  God ! 

Rutherford.  Ay  —  you  say  that  now  the 
thing's  done  —  you'll  whine  and  cry  out  now  you 
done  your  worst  agin  me. 

Janet.     Let  me  be. 

Rutherford.  You're  going  to  put  things 
straight,  are  ye  —  you're  going  to  walk  out  com- 
fortable wi'  your  head  up  and  your  fine  talk 

Janet,     I'm  ready  to  stand  by  it. 

Rutherford.  It's  not  you  that's  got  to  stand  by 
it  —  it's  me !  What  ha'  you  got  to  lose  ?  Your- 
self, if  you've  a  mind  to.  That's  all.  It's  me 
that's  to  be  the  laughing  stock  —  the  Master  whose 
daughter  goes  wi'  a  working-man  like  any  Jenny  i' 
the  place — — 

Janet.  Oh!  You  stand  there!  To  drive  me 
mad 

Rutherford.  That'll  do  —  that'll  do.  I've 
heard  enough.  You've  confessed,  and  there's  an 
end. 

Janet.  Confessed?  As  if  I'd  stolen  something. 
[^Brokenly.']  You  put  it  all  on  to  me,  every  bit  o' 
the  wrong. 

Rutherford.     Ali,  you'll  set  to  and  throw  the 


ACT  II  89 

blame  on  Martin  now.     I  thought  we'd  come  to  it. 

Janet.  No,  no.  I've  taken  that.  But  .  .  . 
you  make  no  excuse.  .  .  .  You  think  of  this 
that  I've  done  separate  from  all  the  rest  —  from 
all  the  years  I  done  as  you  bid  me,  lived  as  you 
bid  me. 

Rutherford.  What's  that  to  do  wi'  it!  I'm 
your  father !  I  work  for  'ee.  ...  I  give  'ee 
food  and  clothes  for  your  back !  I  got  a  right  to 
be  obeyed  —  I  got  a  right  to  have  my  children  live 
respectable  in  the  station  where  I  put  them.  You 
gone  wrong.  That's  what  you  done.  And  you 
try  to  bring  it  up  against  me  because  I  set  you  up 
i'  the  world.     Go  to  bed! 

Janet.  Oh,  you've  no  pity.  .  .  •  \_She 
makes  a  movement  to  go,  then  turns  again  as  if 
for  a  moment.']  I  was  thirty-six.  Gone  sour. 
Nobody  'd  ever  come  after  me.  Not  even  when  I 
was  young.  You  took  care  o'  that.  Half  of 
my  life  was  gone,  well-nigh  all  of  it  that  mattered. 
.  .  .  What  have  I  had  of  it,  afore  I  go  back  to 
the  dark.?  What  have  I  had  of  it.?  Tell  me  that. 
Tell  me ! 

Rutherford.     Where's  the  man  as  'ud  want  you 
wi'  your  sulky  ways? 

Janet.     I've  sat  and  sewed  —  gone  for  a  walk 

—  seen   to   the   meals  —  every   day  —  every    day. 
.     .     .     That's  what  you've  given  me  to  be  my  life 

—  just  that ! 


90  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

Rutherford.  Talk,  talk,  talk!  Fine  words  to 
cover  up  the  shame  and  disgrace  you  brought  on 
me 

Janet.     On  you? 

Rutherford.  Where  'd  you  ha'  been  if  I  hadn't 
set  you  up? 

Janet.  Down  in  the  village  —  in  amongst  it, 
with  the  other  women  —  in  a  cottage  —  happy 
maybe. 

Rutherford  [^angrily].  I  brought  you  up  for 
a  lady  as  idle  as  you  please  —  you  might  ha'  sat 
wi'  your  hands  afore  you  from  morn  till  night  if 
ye'd  had  a  mind  to. 

Janet.  Me  a  lady?  What  do  ladies  think 
about,  sitting  the  day  long  with  their  hands  before 
them?     Wliat  have  they  in  their  idle  hearts? 

Rutherford.  What  more  did  you  want,  in  God's 
name? 

Janet.  Oh,  what  more!  The  women  down 
there  know  what  I  wanted  .  .  .  with  their 
bairns  wrapped  in  their  shawls  and  their  men  to 
come  home  at  night  time.  Fve  envied  them  —  en- 
vied them  their  pain,  their  poorness  —  the  very 
times  they  hadn't  bread.  Theirs  isn't  the  dead 
empty  house,  the  blank  o'  the  moors;  they  got 
something  to  fight,  something  to  be  feared  of. 
They  got  life,  those  women  we  send  cans  o'  soup 
to  out  o'  pity  when  their  bairns  are  bom.  Me  a 
lady!  with  work  for  a  man  in  my  hands,  passion 
for  a  man  in  my  heart  I     I'm  common  —  common. 


ACT  II  91 

Rutherford.  It's  a  lie!  I've  risen  up.  You 
can't  go  back  on  it  —  my  children  can't  go  back. 

Janet.     Whose  risen  —  which  of  us  ^ 

Rutherford.  You  say  that  because  you've 
shamed  yourself  and  you're  jealous  o'  them  that 
keep  decent  like  gentlefolk . 

Janet.  Dick  —  that  every  one  laughs  at .'' 
John  —  with  his  manners  ? 

Rutherford.     Whisht,  wi'  your  wicked  tongue! 

Janet.  Who's  Mary.''  A  little  common  work- 
girl  no  real  gentleman  would  ha'  looked  at.  .  .  . 
You  think  you've  made  us  different  by  keeping 
from  the  people  here.  .  .  .  We're  just  the 
same  as  they  are !  Ask  the  men  that  work  for  you 
—  ask  their  wives  that  curtsey  to  us  in  the  road. 
.  .  .  Do  you  think  they  don't  know  the  differ- 
ence.'' We're  just  the  same  as  they  are  —  com- 
mon, every  one  of  us.  It's  in  our  blood,  in  our 
hands  and  faces;  and  when  we  marry,  we  marry 
common. 

Rutherford.  Marry !  Common  or  not,  no- 
body's married  you  that  I  can  see 

Janet.     Leave  that  —  don't  you  say  it ! 

Rutherford.     It's  the  truth,  more  shame  to  'ee. 

Janet  \^passionately^.  Martin  loves  me  honest. 
Don't  you  come  near !  Don't  you  touch  that ! 
.  You  think  I'm  sorry  you've  found  out  — 
you  think  you've  done  for  me  when  you  use  shame- 
ful words  on  me  and  turn  me  out  o'  your  house. 
You've  let  me  out  o'  gaol!     Whatever  happens  to 


92  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

me  now,  I  shan't  go  on  living  as  I  lived  here. 
Whatever  Martin's  done,  he's  taken  me  from  you. 
You've  ruined  my  life,  you  with  your  getting  on. 
I've  loved  in  wretchedness,  all  the  joy  I  ever  had 
made  wicked  by  the  fear  o'  you.  .  .  .  [>FiZd- 
Z?/.]  Who  are  you?  Who  are  you.''  A  man  — 
a  man  that's  taken  power  to  himself,  power  to 
gather  people  to  him  and  use  them  as  he  wills  —  a 
man  that  'd  take  the  blood  of  life  itself  and  put  it 
into  the  Works  —  into  Rutherfords'.  And  what 
ha'  you  got  by  it  —  what?  You've  got  Dick,  that 
you've  bullied  till  he's  a  fool  —  John,  that's  wait- 
ing for  the  time  when  he  can  sell  what  you've  done 
—  and  you  got  me  —  me  to  take  your  boots  off  at 
night  —  to  well-nigh  wish  you  dead  when  I  had  to 
touch  you.  .  .  .  Now!  .  .  .  Now  you 
know! 


ACT  III 

It  is  about  eleven  o'clock  on  the  following  morning. 
Janet  is  sitting  at  the  table  with  a  shawl  about 
her  shoulders  talking  in  low  tones  to  Mary, 
who  is  opposite. 

Janet  [^after  a  pause^.  You  mean  that  you 
guessed? 

Mary.     Yes. 

Janet.  You  knew  all  the  time,  and  you  didn't 
tell?     Not  even  John? 

Mary.     Why  should  I  tell  him? 

Janet.  I  would  ha'  told  Martin  if  it  had  been 
you. 

Mary.     Not  John. 

Janet.  It  was  good  of  you.  You've  always 
been  better  to  me  than  I've  been  to  you. 

Mary.     What  are  you  going  to  do? 

Janet.  He  says  I'm  to  go.  He's  to  come  in 
and  find  me  gone,  and  no  one's  to  speak  of  me  any 
more.  Not  John,  nor  Dick,  nor  Aunt  Ann.  I'm 
never  to  set  foot  in  this  room  again.  Never  to 
lock  up  and  give  him  the  keys  last  thing.  Never 
to  sit  the  long  afternoon  through  in  the  window,  till 
the  chimneys  are  bright  in  the  dark.     I've  done 

93 


94s  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

what  women  are  shamed  for  doing  —  and  all  the 
night  I've  barely  slept  for  the  hope  in  my  heart. 

Mary.     Hope? 

Janet.  Of  things  coming.  I  had  a  dream  —  a 
dream  that  I  was  in  a  place  wi'  flowers,  in  the  sum- 
mer-time, white  and  thick  like  they  never  grow  on 
the  moor  —  but  it  was  the  moor  —  a  place  near 
Martin's  cottage.  And  I  dreamt  that  he  came  to 
me  with  the  look  he  had  when  I  was  a  little  lass, 
with  his  head  up  and  the  lie  gone  out  of  his  eyes. 
All  the  time  I  knew  I  was  on  my  bed  in  my  room 
here  —  but  it  was  like  as  if  sweetness  poured  into 
me,  spreading  and  covering  me  like  the  water  in  the 
tarn  when  the  rains  are  heavy  in  the  fells. 

Mary.     Is  Mr.  Rutherford  very  angry? 

Janet.  He  won't  never  hear  my  name  again. 
Oh,  last  night  I  said  things  to  him,  when  he  blamed 
me  so  —  things  he  can't  never  forget.  I  was  wild 
—  mad  with  the  bitterness  of  it.  He  made  it  all 
ugly  with  the  things  he  said.  I  told  him  what  I 
never  looked  to  tell  him,  though  I'd  had  it  in  my 
heart  all  these  years.  All  the  time  I  was  speak- 
ing I  was  dead  with  shame  that  he  should  know, 
and  I  had  to  go  on.  But  afterwards  —  it  was  as 
if  I'd  slipped  a  burden,  and  I  was  glad  he  knew, 
glad  that  Dick  heard  it  in  the  street,  glad  that  he 
sneaked  of  me  behind  my  back  —  glad !  For, 
when  I'd  got  over  the  terror  of  it,  it  came  to  me 
that  this  was  what  we'd  been  making  for  ever  since 
you  came  without  knowing  it,  that  we  were  to  win 


ACT  III  95 

through  to  happiness  after  all,  Martin  and  I,  and 
everything  come  right.  Because  I've  doubted. 
Men's  lives  are  different  to  ours.  And  sometimes, 
when  we've  stolen  together,  and  afterwards  I've 
seen  his  face  and  the  sadness  of  it,  I've  wondered 
what  I  had  to  give  him  that  could  count  against 
what  he'd  lost. 

Mary.     But  that's  done  with  now. 

Janet,  Yes!  That's  why  I  dreamt  of  him  so 
last  night.  It  was  as  if  all  that  was  best  in  me 
was  in  that  dream  —  what  I  was  as  a  bairn,  and 
what  I'm  going  to  be.  He  couldn't  help  but  love 
me.  It  was  a  message  —  I  couldn't  have  thought 
of  it  by  myself.  It's  something  that's  come  to  me 
—  here.  [Putting  Tier  hands  on  her  hreast.'\ 
Part  of  me.  [Mary  looks  at  her  with  a  new  under- 
standing. After  a  'pause  she  speaks  again,  very 
gently.l 

Mary.  Where  are  you  going  when  Martin 
comes  for  you? 

Janet.  I  don't  know  yet.  He'll  say  what  to 
do. 

Mary.     Have  you  got  your  things  ready? 

Janet  [as  if  she  scarcely  heard'\.     Yes. 

Mary.     I  could  see  to  them  for  you. 

Janet.  They're  all  ready.  I  put  them  together 
early  in  the  box  mother  had.  [She  breaks  off, 
listening.^ 

Mary.  Janet,  if  ever  the  time  should  be  when 
you  want   help  —  and  it   does  happen   sometimes 


96  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

even  to  people  who  are  very  happy  —  remember 
that  I'll  come  when  you  ask  me  —  always. 

Janet.  He's  coming  now!  \^She  sits  listening, 
her  eyes  bright.  Mary  goes  out  quietly,  closing 
the  door,     Martin  comes  in  from  the  hall.'\ 

Janet  \yery  tenderly'\.  Martin!  \_He  stands 
in  the  doorway,  his  cap  in  his  hands,  his  head  bent. 
He  loolis  spent,  broken,  and  at  the  sight  of  him  the 
hope  dies  slowly  out  of  her  face.'] 

Martin.     Is  Mr.  John  aboot? 

Janet.     I  don't  know. 

Martin.  I  mun  see  'n.  I  got  summat  to  say 
to  'n. 

Janet.     He's  down  at  the  Works  maybe 

Martin.  I  canna  seek  him  there  —  I  got  sum- 
mat  to  say  to  'n. 

Janet.     You  could  give  a  message. 

Martin.  Nay.  It's  summat  that's  got  to  be 
said  to  his  face  —  like  a  man. 

Janet.  Have  you  nothing  to  say  to  me,  Mar- 
tin —  to  my  face  like  a  man  ? 

Martin.  What  should  there  be  to  say  betwixt 
you  and  me?     It's  all  said  long  since. 

Janet.  He's  turned  you  away?  [He  raises  his 
eyes  and  looks  at  her  for  the  first  time.'] 

Martin.  Ay.  You've  said  it.  What  I've  been 
trying  to  tell  myself  these  three  months  past. 
Turned  away  I  am,  sure  enough.  Twenty-five 
year.  And  in  a  minute  it's  broke.  Wi'  two 
words. 


ACT  III  97 

Janet.  He'll  call  you  back.  He  can't  do  with- 
out you,  Martin.  He's  done  it  in  anger  like  he 
was  last  night.     He'll  call  you  back. 

Martin.  He  never  calls  no-one  back.  He's  a 
just  man,  and  he's  in  the  right  of  it.  Anger  — 
there's  no  anger  in  a  face  that's  twisting  like  a 
bairn's  —  white  as  if  it  was  drained  o'  the  blood. 
There's  no  anger  in  a  man  that  stands  still  where 
he  is,  when  he  might  ha'  struck  and  killed  and  still 
been  i'  the  right.  \Janet  gets  up  slowly  and  goes 
to  the  fire.l 

Janet.  Come  and  get  warm  by  the  fire.  It's  a 
bitter  cold  morning.  Come  and  get  warm.  \^He 
moves  slowly  across  and  sits  on  the  settle.  She 
kneels  beside  him,  takes  his  hands  and  begins  to  rub 
them.l 

Janet  [as  if  he  were  a  childl.  Your  hands  are 
as  cold,  as  cold  —  like  frozen.  It's  all  fresh  and 
new  to  you  now,  my  dear,  the  surprise  of  it.  It'll 
pass  —  and  by-and-by  you'll  forget  it  —  be  glad, 
maybe.     Did  you  get  your  breakfast.^ 

Martin.     Ay. 

Janet.     What  have  you  been  doing  —  since? 

Martin.  Walking  —  walking.  Up  on  the  fell 
I  been  —  trying  to  get  it  clear 

Janet.  On  the  fell,  in  such  weather!  That's 
why  you're  so  white  and  weary.  You  should  have 
come  to  me,  my  honey  —  you  should  ha'  come 
straight  to  me.  I  would  ha'  helped  you,  my  dear 
—  out  of  my  love  for  'ee. 


98  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

Martin.     There's  no  help. 

Janet.  You  say  that  now  because  your  heart's 
cold  with  the  trouble.  But  it'll  warm  again  —  it'll 
warm  again.  I'll  warm  it  out  of  my  own  heart, 
Martin  —  my  heart  that  can't  be  made  cold,  not 
if  he  killed  me.  Why,  last  night  he  was  just  the 
same  with  me  as  he's  been  with  you.  I  know  it  all 
—  there's  nothing  you  feel  that  I  don't  know. 
We'll  face  it  together,  you  and  me,  equal  —  and 
by-and-by  it'll  be  different.  What  we  done  was  for 
love  —  people  give  up  everything  for  love,  Mar- 
tin, every  day;  they  say  there's  some  one  in  the 
world  that  does  it.  Don't  'ee  take  on  so  —  don't 
'ee. 

Martin.     Twenty-five  year 


Janet.     Don't  'ee,  my  dear. 

Martin  [^brokenlT/'].  I'd  rather  ha'  died  than  he 
turn  me  away.  I'd  ha'  lost  everything  in  the  world 
to  know  that  I  was  true  to  'n,  like  I  was  till  you 
looked  at  me  wi'  the  love  in  your  face. 

Janet.  Everything  in  the  world.  ...  I 
gave  you  joy  —  joy  for  the  toil  he  gave  you,  soft- 
ness for  his  hardness. 

Martin  [^without  bltternessl.  Ay,  you  were 
ready.  And  you  gave  the  bitter  with  the  sweet. 
Every  time  there  was  him  to  face,  wi'  a  heart  like 
lead. 

Janet.  It  was  a  power  —  a  power  that  came, 
stronger  than  us  both. 

Martin.     You  give  me  the  word. 


ACT  III  99 

Janet.  You  took  awaj^  my  strength.  [There  is 
a  silence.  He  sits  looking  dully  at  the  fire.'\  Any 
one  might  think  me  Hght.  It  isn't  true.  I  never 
had  any  one  but  you,  never.  All  my  life  I've  been 
alone.  When  I  was  a  little  lass  I  vv^asn't  allowed 
to  play  with  the  other  bairns,  and  I  used  to  make 
signs  to  tell  them  I  wanted  to.  You'd  never  have 
known  I  loved  you  if  I  hadn't  given  you  the  word 
—  and  all  our  happiness,  all  that's  been  between 
us,  we'd  never  have  had  it  —  gone  through  our  lives 
seeing  each  other,  speaking  words  that  didn't  mat- 
ter, and  grown  old  and  never  known  what  was  sleep- 
ing in  our  hearts  under  the  dulness.  I  wasn't  light. 
It  was  only  that  I  couldn't  be  shamed  for  you. 

Martin.  Nay,  nay,  it  was  a  great  love  ye  gave 
me  —  you  in  your  grand  hoose  wi'  your  delicate 
ways.     But  it's  broke  me. 

Janet.  But  —  it's  just  the  same  with  us.  Just 
the  same  as  ever  It  was. 

Martin.  Ay.  But  there's  no  mending,  wi'  the 
likes  o'  him. 

Janet.  What's  there  to  mend?  What's  there 
to  mend  except  what's  bound  you  like  a  slave  all 
the  years .''  You're  free  —  free  for  the  first  time 
since  you  were  a  lad  mebbee  —  to  make  a  fresh 
start. 

Martin.  A  fresh  start.?  Wi'  treachery  and  a 
lyin'  tongue  behind  me? 

Janet.  With  our  love  that  nothing  can  break. 
Oh,  my  dear,  I'll  help  'ee.     Morning,  noon,  and 


100  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

night  I'll  work  for  'ee,  comfort  'ee.  We'll  go  away 
from  it  all,  you  and  me  together.  We'll  go  to  the 
south,  where  no  one's  heard  tell  of  Rutherf  ords'  or 
any  of  us.  I'll  love  'ee  so.  I'll  blind  your  eyes 
wi'  love  so  that  you  can't  look  back. 

Martin  {looking  up'\.     Ay.     There's  that. 

Janet.  We'll  begin  again.  We'll  be  happy  — 
happy.  You  and  me,  free  in  the  world!  All  the 
time  that's  been  '11  be  just  like  a  dream  that's  past, 
a  waiting  time  afore  we  found  each  other  —  the 
long  winter  afore  the  flowers  come  out  white  and 
thick  on  the  moors 

Martin.  He'll  be  lookin'  to  me  to  right  ye. 
He'll  be  lookin'  for  that. 

Janet.     To  right  me? 

Martin.  Whatever's  been,  they  munna  say  his 
daughter  wasn't  made  an  honest  woman  of.  He'll 
be  lookin'  for  that.  [There  is  a  silence.  She 
draws  back  slowly,  dropping  her  hands.'\ 

Janet.  What's  he  to  do  with  it?  [He  looks  at 
her,  not  understanding. J  Father  —  what's  he  to 
do  with  it? 

Martin.     It's  for  him  to  say  —  the  Master. 

Janet.     Master ! 

Martin.     What's  come  to  ye,  lass  ? 

Janet.  It's  time  you  left  off  doing  things  be- 
cause of  him.  You're  a  free  man.  He's  not  your 
master  any  more. 

Martin.     What's  wrong  wi'  yc? 

Janet.     You'll  right  me  because  of  him  ?     You'll 


ACT  III  101 

make  an  honest  woman  of  me  because  he's  looking 
for  it.  He  can't  make  you  do  as  he  bids  you  now. 
He's  turned  you  away.  He's  not  your  master  any 
more.     He's  turned  you  away. 

Martin.  Whisht  —  whisht.  [He  sinks  }iis  head 
in  his  hands. '\  Nay,  but  it's  true.  I'll  never  do 
his  work  again.  But  I  done  it  too  long  to  change 
—  too  long. 

Janet.  He's  done  with  you  —  that's  how  much 
he  cares.  I  wouldn't  ha'  let  you  go,  not  if  you'd 
wronged  me. 

Martin.  Twenty-five  years  ago  he  took  me 
from  nothing.  Set  me  where  I  could  work  my  way 
up  —  woke  the  lad's  love  in  me  till  I  would  ha'  died 
for  him  —  willing.     It's  too  long  to  change. 

Janet  \_passionately'\.     No  —  no. 

Martin.  I'll  never  do  his  work  no  more ;  but  It's 
like  as  if  he'd  be  my  master  just  the  same  —  till  I 
die 

Janet.  No,  no,  not  that!  You  mustn't  think 
like  that!  You  think  he's  great  because  j^ou've 
seen  him  at  the  Works  with  the  men  —  everybody 
doing  as  he  bids  them.  He  isn't  great  —  he's  hard 
and  cruel  —  cruel  as  death. 

Martin.     What's  took  you  to  talk  so  wild  ? 

Janet  [holding  him].  Listen,  Martin.  Listen 
to  me.  You've  worked  all  your  life  for  him,  ever 
since  you  were  a  little  lad.  Early  and  late  you've 
been  at  the  Works  —  working  —  working  for  him. 

Martin.     Gladly ! 


102  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

Janet,     Now  and  then  he  give  you  a  kind  word 

—  when  you  were  wearied  out  mebbee  —  and  your 
thoughts  might  ha'  turned  to  what  other  men's 
lives  were,  wi'  time  for  rest  and  pleasure.  You 
didn't  see  through  him,  you  wi'  your  big  heart, 
Martin.  You  were  too  near  to  see,  like  I  was  till 
Mary  came.  You  worked,  gladly  mebbee  —  but 
all  the  time  your  life  was  going  into  Rutherfords' 

—  your  manhood  into  the  place  he's  built.  He's 
had  you,  Martin  —  like  he's  had  me,  and  all  of  us. 
We  used  to  say  he  was  hard  and  ill-tempered.  Bad 
to  do  with  in  the  house  —  we  fell  silent  when  he 
came  in  —  we  couldn't  see  for  the  little  things  — 
we  couldn't  see  the  years  passing  because  of  the 
days.  And  all  the  time  it  was  our  lives  he  was  tak- 
ing bit  by  bit  —  our  lives  that  we'll  never  get  back. 

Martin.  Wliat's  got  ye  to  talk  so  wild?  [He 
moves  from  her  as  she  talks  and  clings  to  him.'\ 

Janet.  Now's  our  chance  at  last !  He's  turned 
us  both  away,  me  as  well  as  you.  We  two  he's  sent 
out  into  the  world  together.  Free.  He's  done  it 
himself  of  his  own  will.  It's  ours  to  take,  Mar- 
tin —  our  happiness.  We'll  get  it  in  spite  of  him. 
He'd  kill  it  if  he  could. 

Martin.     Whisht,  whisht !     You  talk  wild  I 

Janet.  Kill  it,  kill  it!  He's  gone  nigh  to  it  as 
it  is.  [^As  he  makes  a  movement  to  rise.']  Mar- 
tin, Martin,  I  love  'ee.  I'm  old  —  with  the  lines 
on  my  face  —  but  it's  him  that's  made  me  so.  I'm 
bitter-tongued  and  sharp  —  it's  him  that's  killed 


ACT  III  103 

the  sweetness  in  me,  starved  it  till  it  died.  He's 
taken  what  should  have  been  yours  to  have  your 
joy  of.  Stolen  it  —  remember  that  —  and  say  he's 
in  the  right !  Say  it  when  you  wish  me  young  and 
bonny.  Say  it  as  I  shall  when  I  look  in  your  face 
for  the  love  that  can't  wake  for  me. 
Martin.  Bide  still,  bide  still ! 
Janet.  I  wouldn't  ha'  turned  against  you,  not 
if  you'd  nigh  killed  me  —  and  you  set  his  love  up 
against  mine !  Martin !  [He  gets  up,  not  rough- 
ly, but  very  "wearily,  and  moves  away  from 
her.'\ 

Martin.  It  bain't  the  time,  it  bain't  the  time. 
I  been  a  bad  servant.  Faithless.  We  can  twist 
words  like  we  done  all  along  to  make  it  seem  dif- 
ferent, but  there  it  stands.  Leave  him,  when  you 
talk  to  me.  Leave  him.  .  .  .  Mebbee  he's 
had  his  mind  full  of  a  big  work  when  you've  took  a 
spite  at  him. 
Janet.     Ah ! 

Martin.  Womenfolk  has  their  fancies,  and  meb- 
bee they  don't  know  the  harshness  that's  in  the 
heart  of  every  man  that  fights  his  way  i'  the  world 
when  he  comes  into  the  four  walls  of  his  bit  hoose 
of  a  niffht  and  sees  the  littleness  of  it.  [Standing 
by  the  table].  I'm  a  plain  man  with  no  book  lam- 
ing, and  mebbee  I  don't  see  far.  But  I've  watched 
the  Master  year  in  year  out,  and  I  never  seed  him 
do  a  thing,  nor  say  a  thing,  that  he  warn't  in  the 
right   of.     And  there's   not  a   man   among  them 


104s  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

that  can  say  different.  \_TaJiing  up  his  cap.]  I'll 
be  seekin'  Mr.  John. 

Janet  \^s peaks  in  a  dull,  toneless  voice,  kneeling 
where  he  left  her^.  He  says  I  have  to  be  gone  by 
the  time  he  come  in.  Where  am  I  to  go  to  ?  \^He 
turns  to  look  at  her  with  a  puzzled  face.J 

Martin.     Ay.     There's  that. 

Janet.     Where  am  I  to  go  to  ? 

Martin.  It  would  be  best  to  go  a  bit  away  — 
where  ye  wouldna  be  seen  for  a  while. 

Janet.     Where's  the  place  —  far  enough  ? 

Martin.  There's  Horkesley' — up  the  line.  Or 
Hillgarth  yonder.  He's  not  likely  to  be  knawed 
thereaboots. 

Janet.  I  haven't  any  money.  {Martin  slowly 
counts  out  some  coins  on  the  table, '\ 

Martin.  It'll  be  a  hard  life  for  you,  and  you 
not  used  to  it.  Work  early  and  late  —  wi'  a  bairn 
mebbee.  Bitter  cold  i'  the  winter  mornings  wi'  the 
fire  to  light  and  the  breakfast  to  get,  and  you  not 
used  to  it;  we  mun  just  bide  it,  the  pair  on  us. 
Make  the  best  of  it.  I've  saved  two  hundred 
pounds.  There'll  be  summat  to  get  along  on  whilst 
I  look  for  a  job.  Afterwards  we  mun  just  bide  It. 
[There  is  a  silence. '\ 

Janet  [witJiout  bitternessJi.  Take  up  your 
money. 

Martin  [puzzledl^.     It's  for  you,  lass. 

Janet.     Take  up  your  money.     I'll  have  no  need 


ACT  III  105 

of  it.      l^After  a  moment  he  picks  it  up  and  returns 
it  to  his  pocket.^ 

Janet  [still  kneeling'].  After  all,  you'd  give  the 
world  to  ha'  been  true  to  him  —  you'd  give  me, 
that  you  said  was  the  world.  He'd  have  you  back 
if  it  wasn't  for  me.  He  needs  you  for  the  Works. 
If  I  was  out  of  it  there'd  be  no  more  reason  • — 
you'd  go  back,  and  people  would  think  it  all  a  mis- 
take about  you  and  me.  Gossip.  After  a  bit  he'd 
forget  and  be  the  same.  Because  he  needs  you  for 
the  Works.  Men  forgive  men  easy  where  it's  a 
woman,  they  say,  and  you  could  blame  me,  the  pair 
of  you.  Me  that  gave  you  the  word.  [Mary 
comes  in  hurriedly.'] 

Mary.  John's  coming.  He's  coming  across 
from  the  Works.  [Martin  turns  to  face  the  door. 
Janet  does  not  move.  John  comes  in  excited  and 
nervous.] 

John  [azckwardly].  Hullo!  [He  looks  at 
Janet  and  speaks  to  Martin.]  What  are  you  here 
for.? 

Martin.  Mr.  John  —  I  summat  to  say  to  you 
—  summat  I  must  say  afore  I  go. 

John.  You'd  better  keep  quiet,  I  should  think. 
Oh,  I  know !  I've  been  with  the  Guv'nor,  and  he's 
told  me  plain  enough.     You'd  better  keep  quiet. 

Mary.     John,  you  must  listen. 

John.  I  tell  you  I  know!  The  less  we  talk 
about  it  the  better;  I  should  think  you  would  see 


106  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

that  —  the  whole  beastly,  disreputable  business.  I 
can't  stay  —  I  can't  talk  calmly,  if  you  can  —  I'm 
better  out  of  it.  \^He  makes  for  the  door.  Mar- 
tin stops  him.^ 

Martin.  Mr.  John.  .  .  .  You  been  wl'  the 
Master.     Wliat  was  it  he  told  you  —  plain  enough? 

John  Insignificantly'].     What  was  it! 

Martin.  Did  he  tell  you  he'd  got  your  metal? 
\_John  looks  at  him.] 

John.     Are  you  mad? 

Martin.  I've  give  it  him  —  I  took  it  him  this 
morning,  and  when  he  got  it  safe  he  turned  me 
away.     That's  what  I  got  to  say. 

John  {^sharply].  I  don't  believe  it!  You  can't 
have !     You  haven't  got  the  quantities  ! 

Martin.  The  paper  I  took  the  last  trial  we 
made 

John  [^his  voice  high-pitched  with  excitemenf]. 
Don't  —  don't  play  the  fool. 

Martin.  I'm  speaking  God's  truth,  and  you'd 
best  take  it.  Yesterday  night  he  sent  for  me  — 
and  I  give  it  him,  because  he  asked  me  for  it.  He 
was  i'  the  right,  yesterday  night  —  I  don't  call  to 
mind  how.  And  just  now  I  give  it  him.  That's 
what  I  got  to  say.  {John  stands  staring  at  him 
speechless.  Martin,  having  said  what  he  came  to 
say,  turns  to  go.  Mary,  suddenly  realising  what 
it  all  means,  makes  an  involuntary  movement  to 
stop  him.] 

Mary.     Martin !     You've  given  the  receipt  to 


ACT  III  107 

Mr.  Rutherford!  He's  got  it  —  he'll  take  the 
money  from  it !  .  .  .  You're  sure  of  what  you 
say,  Martin?     You  haven't  made  a  mistake? 

Martin.     Mistake  ? 

Mary.  You  may  have  got  it  wrong  —  the  quan- 
tities, or  whatever  it  is.  It  all  depends  on  that, 
doesn't  it?  The  least  slip  would  put  it  all  wrong, 
wouldn't  it? 

Martin  [^tired  out  and  dull^.  There's  no  mis- 
take. 

Mary  [with  a  despairing  movemenf].  Oh!  you 
don't  know  what  you've  done ! 

John  \_almost  in  tears^.  He  knows  well  enough 
—  you  knew  well  enough.  You're  a  thief  — 
you're  as  bad  as  he  is  —  you  two  behind  my  back. 
It  was  mine  —  the  only  chance  I  had.  Damn  him ! 
damn  him!  You've  done  for  yourself,  that's  one 
thing  —  you're  done  for !  You'll  not  get  any- 
thing out  of  it  now,  not  a  farthing.  He's  twisted 
you  round  his  finger,  making  you  think  you'd  have 
the  pickings,  has  he?  And  then  thrown  you  out 
into  the  street  for  a  fool  and  worse.  You're  done 
for!  .  .  .  You've  worked  with  me,  seen  it 
grow.  I  never  thought  but  to  trust  you  as  I 
trusted  myself  —  and  you  give  it  away  thinking 
to  make  a  bit  behind  my  back!  You'll  not  get  a 
farthing  now  —  not  a  farthing  —  you're  done 
for. 

Martin.  Hard  words,  Mr.  John,  from  you  to 
me.     But  I  done  it,  and  I  mun  bide  by  it. 


108  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

John.  Oh,  clear  out  —  don't  talk  to  me.  By 
Heaven !     I'll  be  even  with  him  yet. 

Martin.  I  done  it  —  but  it  bain't  true  what 
you  think,  that  I  looked  to  make  a  bit.  I  give  it 
to  him,  but  I  had  no  thought  o'  gain  by  what  I 
done.  .  .  .  It's  past  me  —  it's  all  past  me  — 
I  canna  call  it  to  mind,  nor  see  it  plain.  But  I 
know  one  thing,  that  I  never  thought  to  make  a 
penny.  {^Suddenly  remembering.^  It  was  for 
Rutherf ords' —  that's  what  he  said  —  I  mind  it 
now.  He  said,  for  Rutherf  ords' —  and  I  seed  it 
yesterday  night.  It  was  as  clear  as  day  —  yester- 
day night.  [No  one  answers.  After  a  moment  he 
goes  out.  As  the  outer  door  closes  John  suddenly 
goes  to  Rutherford's  desk  and  begins  pulling  out 
drawers  as  if  searching  for  something. 1^ 

Mary  [watching  /lim].     What  are  you  doing.? 

John.     Where's  the  key,  curse  it ! 

Mary  [shar'ply'\.     You  can't  do  that  I 

John.     Do  what.!^     I'm  going  to  get  even. 

Mary.     Not  money !     You  can't  take  his  money ! 

John  [unlocking  the  cash  hox'\.  Just  be  quiet, 
will  you.?  He's  taken  all  I  have.  [He  empties 
the  money  out  on  to  the  desk,  his  hands  shaking. 1 
Fifteen  —  twenty  —  twenty-three.  And  it's  twen- 
ty-three thousand  he  owes  me  more  like,  that  he's 
stolen.  Is  there  any  more  —  a  sixpence  I've 
missed,  that'll  help  to  put  us  even.?  Twenty-three 
quid  —  curse  him !  And  he  stood  and  talked  to 
me  not  an  hour  ago,  and  all  the  time  he  knew! 


ACT  III  109 

He's  mean,  that's  what  he  is  —  mean  and  petty- 
minded.  No  one  else  could  have  done  it  —  to  go 
and  get  at  Martin  behind  my  back  because  he  knew 
I  was  going  to  be  one  too  many  for  him. 

Mary  \implor'mgly'\.  Put  it  back!  Oh,  put  it 
back! 

John.     Oh,  shut  up,  ]\Iollie. 
Mary,     Don't  take  it,  John. 
John.     I    tell   you    it's    mine,    by    right  —  you 
don't    understand.     .     .     .     How    am    I    to    get 
along  if  I  don't? 

Mary.  You've  not  got  to  do  this,  John  —  for 
Tony's  sake.  I  don't  care  what  he's  done  to  you 
—  you've  not  got  to  do  it. 

John.  Don't  make  a  tragedy  out  of  nothing. 
It's  plain  common  sense!  [^Angrily. ~\  And  don't 
look  at  me  as  if  I  were  stealing.  It's  mine,  I  tell 
you.  I  only  wish  there  were  a  few  thousands  — 
I'd  take  them! 

Mary.  John,  listen  to  me.  I've  never  seriously 
asked  you  to  do  anything  for  me  in  my  life.  Just 
this  once  —  I  ask  you  to  put  that  money  back. 

John.     My  dear  girl,  don't  be  so  foolish 

Mary  {^compelling  him  to  listen  to  her'\.  Lis- 
ten! You're  Tony's  father!  I  can't  help  it  if 
you  think  I'm  making  a  tragedy  out  of  what  seems 
to  you  a  simple  thing.  One  day  he'll  know  — 
some  one  '11  tell  him  that  you  stole  money  —  well 
then,  that  you  took  money  that  wasn't  yours,  be- 
cause you  thought  you  had  the  right  to  it.     What 


110  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

will  it  be  like  for  him?  Try  and  realise  —  we've 
no  right  to  live  as  we  like  —  we've  had  our  day 
together,  you  and  I  —  but  it's  past,  and  we  know 
it.  He's  what  matters  now  —  and  we've  got  to 
live  decently  for  him  —  keep  straight  for  him 

John  [^answering  her  like  an  angry  child'\. 
Then  do  it !  I've  had  enough  —  I'm  sick  of  it. 
YJanet,  who  all  this  time  has  been  kneeling  where 
Martin  left  her,  gets  up  suddenly,  stumbling  for- 
ward as  if  she  were  blind.  The  other  two  stop  in- 
Z'oluntarily  and  watch  her  as  she  makes  for  the 
door,  dragging  her  shawl  over  her  head.  As  the 
outer  door  shuts  on  her,  Mary  with  a  half-cry 
makes  a  movement  to  follow  her.^ 

Mary.     Janet ! 

John.     Oh,  let  her  be ! 

Mary  \_facing  the  door'\.     Where's  she  going  to? 

John.  I'm  not  going  to  argue  —  I've  done  that 
too  long  —  listening  to  first  one  and  then  an- 
other of  you.  What's  come  of  it?  You  wouldn't 
let  me  go  out  and  sell  the  thing  while  it  was  still 
mine  to  sell.  I  might  have  been  a  rich  man  if  I'd 
been  let  to  go  my  own  way !  You  were  always 
dragging  me  back,  everything  I  did  —  with  your 
talk.  Tony  —  you're  perpetually  cramming  him 
down  my  throat,  till  I'm  sick  of  the  very  name  of 
the  poor  little  beggar.  How  much  better  off  is  he 
for  your  interfering?  Give  up  this  and  give  up 
that  —  I've  lost  everything  I  ever  had  by  doing  as 
you  said.     xVnybody  would  have  bought  it,  any- 


ACT  III  111 

body !  and  made  a  fortune  out  of  it  —  and  there  it 
is  lost!  gone  into  Rutherfords',  like  everything 
else.  Damn  the  place !  damn  it !  Oh,  let  him  wait ! 
I'll  be  even  with  him.  I  came  back  once  because  I 
was  a  soft  fool  —  this  time  I'll  starve  sooner. 

Mary.     You're  going  away.^^ 

John.  Yes,  I'm  going  for  good  and  all.  \^She 
stands  looking  at  hhn.^ 

Mary.     Where  are  you  going  to? 

John.  London  —  anywhere.  Canada  probably 
—  that's  the  place  to  strike  out  on  your  own 

Mary.     You  mean  to  work  then? 

John  [impatiently].  Of  course.  We  can't  live 
for  ever  on  twenty-three  quid. 

Mary.     What  are  you  going  to  work  at  ? 

John.     Anything  —  as  long  as  I  show  him 

Mary.     But  what  —  what? 

John.  Oh,  there'll  be  something.  Damn  it, 
Mary,  what  right  have  you  to  catechise? 

Mary.  Don't,  please.  I'm  not  catechising;  I 
want  to  know.  It's  a  question  of  living.  What 
are  you  going  to  do  when  you've  spent  what  you've 

got? 

John  [trying  not  to  look  shamefaced  as  he  makes 
the  suggestion].  You  could  go  back  to  Mason's 
for  a  bit  —  they'd  be  glad  enough  to  have  you. 

Mary.     Go  back? 

John  [resentfully].  Well,  I  suppose  you  won't 
mind  helping  for  a  bit  till  I  see  my  way.  What  was 
the  screw  you  got? 


112  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

Mary.     Twenty-five. 

John.  That  would  help  if  the  worst  came  to  the 
worst. 

Mary.     We  lived  on  it  before. 

John.  We  could  put  up  at  the  same  lodgings 
for  a  bit.     They're  cheap. 

Mary.     Walton  Street. 

John  [loudly^.  Anyway,  I'm  going  to  be  even 
with  him  —  I'll  see  him  damned  before  I  submit. 
I've  put  up  with  it  long  enough  for  your  sake  — 
I'm  going  to  get  a  bit  of  my  own  back  for  once. 
After  all,  I'm  his  son  —  you  can't  count  Dick; 
when  I'm  gone  he'll  begin  to  see  what  he's  lost. 
Why,  he  may  as  well  sell  Rutherf ords'  outright  — 
with  no  one  to  come  after  him.  He's  worked  for 
that  —  all  his  hfe!  Lord!  I'd  give  something  to 
see  his  face  when  he  comes  in  and  asks  for  me ! 
\^Mary  makes  no  answer,  as  indeed  there  is  none  to 
make.  She  speaks  again,  not  bitterly,  but  as  one 
stating  a  fact.^ 

Mary.  So  that's  your  plan.?  \_There  is  a  si- 
lence, in  which  he  cannot  meet  her  eyes.  She  re- 
peats, without  hope.l  John,  once  more  —  from 
my  soul  I  ask  you  to  do  what  I  wish. 

John   \^impatiently'\.     What  about? 

Mary.  The  money.  To  put  it  back!  [He 
makes  a  movement  of  desperate  irritation.']  No, 
don't  answer  just  for  a  moment.  You  don't  know 
how  much  depends  on  this  —  for  us  both.  Our 
future  life  —  perhaps  our  last  chance  of  happiness 


ACT  III  113 

together  —  you   don't   know  what   it   may   decide. 

John.  I  tell  you  you  don't  understand.  [There 
is  a  blank  silence.  He  moves  uncomfortably.'] 
You  can't  see.  What's  twenty-three  quid!  [She 
makes  a  despairing  movement.'] 

Mary  [in  a  changed  voice].  I'm  afraid  you'll 
find  it  rather  a  burden  having  me  and  Tony  — 
while  you're  seeing  your  way,  I  mean. 

John.  A  burden.?  You.?  Why,  you've  just 
said  you  could  help  at  Mason's 

Mary.     I  can't  go  out  all  day  and  leave  Tony. 

John.  Old  Mrs.  What's-'er-name  would  keep  an 
eye  on  him. 

Mary.  It  would  free  you  a  good  deal  if  we 
weren't  with  you. 

John.  Of  course  if  you  won't  do  anything  to 
help 

Mary  [after  a  pause].  How  would  it  be  if  you 
went  alone?     Then  —  when  you've  seen  your  way 

—  when  you've  made  enough  just  to  live  decently 

—  you  could  write  and  we  could  come  to  you. 
Somewhere  that  would  do  for  Tony  —  wherever  it 
may  be. 

John.     In  a  month  or  two. 

Mary.     In  a  month  or  two. 

John  [awkwardly].  Well,  perhaps  it  would  be 
better  —  as  you  suggest  it.  I  really  don't  ex- 
actly see  how  I'm  going  to  manage  the  two  of  you. 
.  .  .  You  mean  —  stay  on  here  in  the  mean- 
time .? 


114  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

Mary.     Yes  —  stay  on  here. 

John.  But  the  Guv'nor  —  I'm  afraid  it'll  be 
pretty  rotten  for  you  without  me. 

Mary.     That's  all  right. 

John  \irritahly'\.  All  these  stupid  little  details 
'■ —  we  lose  sight  of  the  real  issue.  That's  settled, 
then. 

Mary.  Yes  —  settled.  \^She  moves,  'passing 
her  hand  over  her  eyes.^     How  are  you  going? 

John  \relieved\.  What's  the  time  now?  Close 
on  twelve! 

Mary.  You're  not  thinking  of  going  now  —  at 
once! 

John.  There's  the  one  o'clock  train.  I'll  get 
old  Smith  to  drive  me  to  the  Junction  —  it  doesn't 
stop. 

Mary.     There  won't  be  time  to  pack  your  things. 

John.     Send  them  after  me. 

Mary.     You've  no  food  to  take  with  you. 

John.  That  doesn't  matter ;  I'll  get  some  on  the 
way. 

Mary  {^suddenly '\.  You  can't  go  like  this !  We 
must  talk  —  we  can't  end  it  all  like  this. 

John.  I  must  —  I  didn't  know  it  was  so  late  — 
he'll  be  in  to  dinner.  Cheer  up,  dear,  it's  only  for 
a  little  while.  I  hate  it  too,  but  it  wouldn't  do  for 
him  to  find  me  here.     It  would  look  —  weak. 

Mary.  No,  no  —  you're  right  —  you  mustn't 
meet  —  it  would  do  no  good.  [She  stands  unde- 
cided for  a  moment,  then  goes  quicJdy  into  the  hall 


ACT  III  115 

and  brings  his  overcoat.']     It's  bitter  cold.     And 
it's  an  open  trap,  isn't  it? 

John.  I  shall  be  all  right.  \_She  helps  him  on 
•with  the  coat.]  It  won't  be  long  —  the  time  '11 
pass  before  you  know  where  you  are ;  it  always  does 
—  I  haven't  time  to  see  the  kid  —  it's  the  only 
thing  to  be  done  —  other  fellows  make  their  for- 
tunes every  day,  why  shouldn't  I  ? 

Mary  \_as  if  he  were  a  child].  Yes,  yes,  why 
shouldn't  you? 

John.  Something  '11  turn  up  —  and  I've  got 
the  devil's  own  luck  at  times  —  you'll  see.  I've 
never  had  a  chance  up  to  now.  Some  day  you'll 
believe  in  me.      \He  sees  her  face  and  stops  short.] 

Mollie !     [^Takes  her  in  his  arms.     She  breaks, 

dozmiy  clinging  to  him.] 

Mary.     Oh,  my  dear  —  if  I  could ! 

John  [moved] .  I  will  do  it,  Mollie  —  I  swear 
I  will.  Something  '11  turn  up,  and  it'll  all  come 
right  —  we'll  be  as  happy  as  kings,  you  see  if  we 
aren't.  Don't,  dear,  it's  only  for  a  little  while. 
.     .     .     Well  then  —  will  you  come  with  me  now  ? 

Mary.  No,  no,  that  can't  be.  Go,  go  —  he'll 
be  in  directly.  Go  now.  [She  goes  with  him  to 
the  outer  door.  Ann  Rutherford  comes  in  on  her 
way  through  the  room.] 

Ann.  Who  is  it's  got  the  door  open  on  such  a 
day?  And  the  wind  fit  to  freeze  a  body's  bones! 
[The  outer  door  is  heard  closing.  Mary  comes  in 
slowly,   very  pale.]     Come  in,   come   in,  for  the 


116  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

Lord's  sake.      \_Looking  at  her.l^     What  be  ye  do- 
ing out  there? 

Mary,     He's  gone. 

Ann  \^cross  with  the  cold^.  Gone,  gone,  this  one 
and  that  —  John  ?  And  what  '11  he  be  gone  for  ? 
I  never  seed  such  doings,  never! 

Mary.     Shall  I  make  up  the  fire  ? 

Ann.  And  you  all  been  and  let  it  down !  Nay, 
nay,  I'll  do  it  myself.  It'll  not  be  up  for  ten  min- 
utes or  more.  Such  doings.  What  '11  he  be  gone 
for.? 

Mary.     He's  had  a  quarrel  with  his  father. 

Ann  [putting  logs  on  half-'whimpering'\.  A  fine 
reason  for  making  folks  talk  —  bringing  disgrace 
on  the  hoose,  and  all  Grantley  talking,  and  to-mor- 
row Sunday  —  I  never  seed  the  like,  never ! 

Mary.     It's  no  use  crying. 

Ann.  It's  weel  enough  for  you  to  talk  —  you 
bain't  one  of  the  family,  a  stranger  like  you.  You 
don't  know.  When  you've  come  up  i'  the  world 
and  are  respected  there's  nothing  pleases  folk  bet- 
ter than  to  find  something  agin  you.  What  am  I 
to  say  when  I'm  asked  after  my  nevvy.?  Tell  me 
that.  And  him  gone  off  without  so  much  as  a 
change  to  his  back  —  it  aren't  respectable.  And 
there's  Janet  not  ten  minutes  since  gone  along  the 
road  wi'  her  shawl  over  her  head  like  a  common 
working  lass.  Where  it's  to  end,  I'm  sure  I  can't 
tell. 

Mary.     Perhaps  it  is  ended. 


ACT  III  117 

Ann.  Perhaps  half  the  work's  left  and  the 
house  upset.  Susan  '11  be  giving  notice  just  now 
—  her  and  her  goings  on.  As  if  lasses  weren't 
hard  enough  to  get  —  and  there's  dinner  and 
all 

Mary.     Do  you  want  the  table  laid.? 

Ann.  It  'd  help  —  though  you've  no  call  to  do 
it  —  you  got  your  own  troubles  —  the  little  lad  '11 
be  wanting  you  mebbee. 

Mary.  He's  still  asleep.  I'll  leave  the  door 
open  and  then  I  shall  hear  him.  [^She  opens  the 
door,  listening  for  a  moment  before  she  comes  bach 
into  the  room.'\ 

Ann.  Janet  '11  be  back  mebbee  afore  you've 
finished.  Such  doings  —  everything  put  wrong. 
I'll  go  and  fetch  the  bread.  \_She  wanders  out, 
tailing  as  she  goes.  Mary  takes  the  brown  cloth 
off  the  table,  folds  it,  takes  the  white  one  from  the 
drawer  in  the  sideboard,  and  spreads  it.  As  she  is 
doing  so  John  Rutherford  comes  in.  He  stands 
looking  at  her  for  a  moment,  then  comes  to  the 
fire.'] 

Rutherford  [as  he  passes  her].     Dinner's  late. 

Mary  [going  on  with  her  work^.  It'll  be  ready 
in  a  few  minutes. 

Rutherford.  It's  gone  twelve.  [She  makes  no 
answer.  He  takes  his  pipe  off  the  chimney-piece 
and  begins  to  fill  it.  As  he  is  putting  his  tobacco- 
pouch  back  into  his  pocket  his  eyes  fall  on  the 
table;  he  stops  short. 1 


118  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

Rutherford.     You've  laid  a  place  short.      \^Rais- 

ing  his  'voice. ^      D'  ye  hear  me,  you've  laid  a 

\_She  looks  at  him.'] 

Mary.  No.  [^She  goes  to  the  sideboard  and 
spreads  a  cloth  there.  He  stands  motionless  star- 
ing at  the  table.] 

Rutherford.  Gone.  Trying  to  frighten  me,  is 
he  ?  Trying  a  bit  o'  bluff  —  he'll  show  me,  eh  ? 
And  all  I  got  to  do  is  to  sit  quiet  and  wait  for  him 
to  come  back  —  that's  all  I  got  to  do. 

Mary  [^quietly].     He  won't  come  back. 

Rutherford.  Won't  he !  He'll  come  back  right 
enough  when  he  feels  the  pinch  —  he'll  come  slink- 
ing back  like  a  whipped  puppy  at  nightfall,  like 
he  did  afore.  I  know  him  —  light  —  light-minded 
like  his  mother  afore  him.  [He  comes  to  his  desk 
and  finds  the  open  cash  box.]  Who's  been  here? 
Who's  been  here.'^  \_He  stands  staring  at  the  box 
till  the  lid  falls  from  his  hand.]  Nay  —  he'll  not 
come  back,  by  God ! 

Mary  [hopelessly].  He  thought  he  had  the 
right  —  he  believed  he  had  the  right  after  you'd 
taken  what  was  his. 

Rutherford.  I'd  sooner  have  seen  him  in  his 
grave. 

Mary.     He  couldn't  see. 

Rutherford.  Bill  Henderson  did  that  because 
he  knowed  no  better.  And  my  son  knowed  no  bet- 
ter, though  I  made  a  gentleman  of  him.  Set  him 
up.     I    done    with    him  —  done   with   him  \     [He 


ACT  III  119 

drops  heavily  into  the  armchair  beside  the  table 
and  sits  staring  before  him.  After  a  long  silence 
he  speaks  again.^ 

Rutherford.  Why  haven't  you  gone  too,  and 
made  an  empty  house  of  it? 

Mary.     I'm  not  going. 

Rutherford.  Not  going,  aren't  you?  Not  till 
it  pleases  you,  I  take  it  —  till  he  sends  for  you? 

Mary.     He  won't  send  for  me. 

Rutherford  {^quicUyl.     Where's  the  little  lad? 

Mary.  Asleep  upstairs.  [^After  a  pause  she 
speaks  again  in  level  tones.']  I've  lived  in  your 
house  for  nearly  three  months.  \He  turns  to  look 
at  her.]  Until  you  came  in  just  now  you  haven't 
spoken  to  me  half-a-dozen  times.  Every  sHght 
that  can  be  done  without  words  you've  put  upon 
me.  There's  never  a  day  passed  but  you've  made 
me  feel  that  I'd  no  right  here,  no  place. 

Rutherford.  You'll  not  die  for  a  soft  word 
from  the  likes  o'  me. 

Mary.  Now  that  I've  got  to  speak  to  you,  I 
want  to  say  that  first  —  in  case  you  should  think 
I'm  going  to  appeal  to  you,  and  in  case  I  should  be 
tempted  to  do  it. 

Rutherford.     What  ha'  ye  got  to  ask  of  me? 

Mary,  To  ask  —  nothing.  I've  a  bargain  to 
make  with  you. 

Rutherford  [half  truculent].     Wi'  me? 

Mary.  You  can  listen  —  then  you  can  take  it 
or  leave  it. 


120  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

Rutherford.  Thank  ye  kindly.  And  what's 
your  idea  of  a  bargain? 

Mary.  A  bargain  is  where  one  person  has  some- 
thing to  sell  that  another  wants  to  buy.  There's 
no  love  in  it  —  only  money  —  money  that  pays 
for  life.  I've  got  something  to  sell  that  you  want 
to  buy. 

Rutherford.     What's  that? 

Mary.  My  son.  \^Their  eyes  meet  in  a  long 
steady  look.  She  goes  on  deliberately.']  You've 
lost  everything  you  have  in  the  world.  John's 
gone  —  and  Richard  —  and  Janet.  They  won't 
come  back.  You're  alone  now  and  getting  old, 
with  no  one  to  come  after  you.  When  you  die 
Rutherf ords'  will  be  sold  —  somebody  '11  buy  it  and 
give  it  a  new  name  perhaps,  and  no  one  will  even 
remember  that  you  made  it.  That'll  be  the  end  of 
all  your  work.  Just  —  nothing.  You've  thought 
of  that.  I've  seen  you  thinking  of  it  as  I've  sat 
by  and  watched  you.  And  now  it's  come. 
Will  you  listen? 

Rutherford.  Ay.  [She  sits  down  at  the  other 
end  of  the  table,  facing  him.] 

Mary.  It's  for  my  boy.  I  want  —  a  chance  of 
life  for  him  —  his  place  in  the  world.  John  can't 
give  him  that,  because  he's  made  so.  If  I  went 
to  London  and  worked  my  hardest  I'd  get  twenty- 
five  shillings  a  week.  We've  failed.  From  you  I 
can  get  what  I  want  for  my  boy.  I  want  —  all  the 
good  common  things:  a  good  house,  good  food, 


ACT  III  121 

warmth.  He's  a  delicate  little  thing  now,  but  he'll 
grow  strong  like  other  children.  I  want  to  undo 
the  wrong  we've  done  him,  John  and  I.  If  I  can. 
Later  on  there'll  be  his  schooling  —  I  could  never 
save  enough  for  that.  You  can  give  me  all  this 
- —  you've  got  the  power.  Right  or  wrong,  you've 
got  the  power.  .  .  .  That's  the  bargain. 
Give  me  what  I  ask,  and  in  return  I'll  give  you  — 
him.  On  one  condition.  I'm  to  sta}'  on  here.  I 
won't  trouble  you  —  you  needn't  speak  to  me  or 
see  me  unless  you  want  to.  For  ten  years  he's  to 
be  absolutely  mine,  to  do  what  I  like  with.  You 
mustn't  interfere  —  you  mustn't  tell  him  to  do 
things  .or  frighten  him.  He's  mine.  For  ten  years 
more. 

Rutherford.     And  after  that? 

Mary.     He'll  be  yours. 

Rutherford.  To  train  up.  For  Rutherf ords' .? 
You'd  trust  your  son  to  me.^* 

Mary.     Yes. 

Rutherford.  After  all?  After  Dick,  that  I've 
bullied  till  he's  a  fool?  John,  that's  wished  me 
dead  ? 

Mary.  In  ten  years  you'll  be  an  old  man;  you 
won't  be  able  to  make  people  afraid  of  you  any 
more. 

Rutherford.  Ali!  Because  o'  that?  And  be- 
cause I  have  the  power? 

Mary.  Yes.  And  there'll  be  money  for  his 
clothes  —  and  you'll  leave  the  Works  to  him  when 


122  RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 

you  die.      \_There  is  a  silence.     He  sits  motionless, 
looking  at  her.^ 

Rutherford.  You've  got  a  fair  notion  of  busi- 
ness —  for  a  woman. 

Mary.  I've  earned  my  living.  I  know  all  that 
that  teaches  a  woman. 

Rutherford.  It's  taught  you  one  thing  —  to 
have  an  eye  to  the  main  chance. 

Mary.     You  think  I'm  bargaining  for  my  self  .^ 

Rutherford.     You  get  a  bit  out  of  it,  don't  you  ? 

Mary.     What.? 

Rutherford.  A  roof  over  your  head  —  the  shel- 
ter of  a  good  name  —  your  keep  —  things  not  so 
easy  to  come  by,  my  son's  wife,  wi'  a  husband  that 
goes  off  and  leaves  you  to  live  on  his  father's  char- 
ity.     [There  is  a  pause. '\ 

Mary  [slo'wly'\.  There'll  be  a  woman  living  in 
the  house  —  year  after  year,  with  the  fells  closed 
round  her.  She'll  sit  and  sew  at  the  window  and 
see  the  chimneys  flare  in  the  dark;  lock  up,  and 
give  you  the  keys  at  night 

Rutherford.     You've  got  your  bairn. 

Mary.  Yes,  I've  got  him!  For  ten  years. 
[They  sit  silent.'\     Is  it  a  bargain? 

Rutherford.  Ay.  [She  gets  up  with  a  move- 
ment of  relief.  As  he  speaks  again  she  turns,  fa- 
cing him.'\  You  think  me  a  hard  man.  So  I  am. 
But  I'm  wondering  if  I  could  ha'  stood  up  as  you're 
standing  and  done  what  you've  done. 

Mary.     I  love  my  child.     That  makes  me  hard. 


ACT  III  123 

Rutherford.  I  used  to  hope  for  my  son  once, 
like  you  do  for  yours  now.  When  he  was  a  bit  of 
a  lad  I  used  to  think  o'  the  day  when  I'd  take  him 
round  and  show  him  what  I  had  to  hand  on.  I 
thought  he'd  come  after  me  —  glad  o'  what  I'd 
done.  I  set  my  heart  on  that.  And  the  end  of 
it's  just  this  —  an  empty  house  —  we  two  stran- 
gers, driving  our  bargain  here  across  the  table. 

Mary.     There's  nothing  else. 

Rutherford.  You  think  I've  used  him  badly? 
You  think  I've  done  a  dirty  thing  about  this  metal,'' 

Mary.     It  was  his. 

Rutherford.  I've  stolen  it  behind  his  back  — 
and  I'm  going  to  make  money  out  of  it.? 

Mary.     I  don't  know  —  I  don't  know. 

Rutherford.     It'll  come  to  your  son. 

Mary.     Yes. 

Rutherford.  Because  I  done  that  he'll  have  his 
chance,  his  place  i'  the  world.  What  would  ha' 
gone  to  the  winds,  scattered  and  useless,  '11  be  his. 
He'll  come  on,  young  and  strong,  when  my  work's 
done,  and  Rutherfords'  '11  stand  up  firm  and  safe 
out  o'  the  fight  and  the  bitterness  —  Rutherfords' 
that  his  grandfather  gave  his  life  to  build  up. 

Mary  {^stopping  him  with  a  gesture'].     Hush! 

Rutherford.  What  is  it?  [They  both  listen.'] 
The  little  lad.  He's  waking!  [Mary  runs  out. 
The  room  is  very  silent  as  Rutherford  sits  sunk  in 
his  chair  thinking.] 

THE    END 


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